A Big Enough Umbrella
by bornonhalloween
Summary: Even a superhero has to pull on his tights one leg at a time. An "Old School" sequel as told by Umbrella Man himself. Rated M because they can't keep their hands off each other.
1. Breakfast For One

**A BIG ENOUGH UMBRELLA  
 _An "Old School" Sequel_**

* * *

 **1 BREAKFAST FOR ONE**

There are times in every healthy relationship when brevity trumps intricacy, and distance trumps intimacy. In other words, when texting trumps talking.

Shocking, right? Apparently, Bella has taught me much in the two years we've been dating. Call me "Old School" if you must, but I'm adaptive. Charles Darwin would love the hell out of me. Granted, some lessons had to be learned the hard way. Nobody ever said the old dog got every new trick right on the first try.

I suppose I've attempted conversation at the wrong time once or twice, enough to know this morning would be a particularly bad time for more depth than the feeble text I just sent her: **_Don't forget your umbrella._**

She'll glance at her phone and smile (hopefully), a momentary break in the stress as she prepares herself for this day of reckoning, the assignment of the all-important final project. Bella could not possibly be expected to hold up half of a conversation right now.

My phone chimes with the incoming text: **_Not a cloud in the sky._** A cute sun-wearing-sunglasses emoji makes me grin.

As if the forecast for rain can just be ignored! I can picture her evil grin as she tortures me. Good. Distraction is good.

Better than dwelling on the questions stampeding through both our minds: What case study will be Bella's to crack open like a patient on an operating table? What kind of challenges will she encounter on the way to the knee-knocking final presentation to her professors and peers? Which of her classmates will be assigned as her partner for countless hours of research, meetings, and head-banging over the next four months?

If I could, I'd drive Bella to school today and keep her focus elsewhere. Tell her a few horrible knock-knock jokes. Commiserate over the latest crop of "Bachelorette" choices. Most importantly, leave Bella with a decent "Have a great day" kiss before letting her out of my car and into the world.

Alas, I have an early client this morning, so the best I can do is send another text: **_This is the calm before the storm. Take the umbrella._**

My trusty Keurig fires up a dark roast while the oatmeal bowl spins in the microwave. I hate these lonely mornings when Bella doesn't stay over. Coffee for one. Cereal for one. If today were a Bella breakfast day, I'd be up to my elbows in waffle batter and bacon grease right now—and loving every messy minute.

I get it, though. Early classes, late shifts, and Bella's commitment to Mrs. C . . . She doesn't need me to add to her pressures. And of course, my calendar is constrained by my clients and the increasingly difficult visits with Mom. _Not a great place to dwell . . ._

The good news is that with a little planning—my specialty!—Bella and I have settled into a schedule that works well: four nights a week at my place, three with Mrs. Cope. I try not to be a sore loser on my off nights, especially after Bella spent a whole ten nights at my place over the holidays so Mrs. Cope could host her family visiting from the east coast. I remind myself to suck it up as the first taste of oatmeal reaches my mouth.

Bella's reply makes me chuckle around the spoon: **_But if I bring my umbrella, you won't rescue me._**

I'd be a fool to argue with that invitation. **_As usual, I bow to your logic. Leave it home._**

 ** _Already did,_** she texts back. **_Don't forget your superhero tights! *WINK*_**

A little glob of oatmeal shoots out when I chuckle. Bella would never let me live that one down. She happens to think I have impeccable manners, and I prefer to keep it that way. Yet another advantage to texting.

I set my spoon inside the bowl and push my breakfast to one side. I'll finish eating after our conversation is over, when it's safe again. Meanwhile, Bella's given me an opening I cannot resist. **_You know I only wear those for you in private._**

 ** _The world's loss is my gain._**

I love picturing the big grin she must have on her face right now. It's so much better than picturing myself in tights.

 ** _Speaking of underwear, what are YOU wearing?_** Yeah, my sexting skills are on point, if I do say so myself.

 ** _Keeping it simple today- gotta make an impression on the new prof. Just white cotton bikinis and bra._**

 _Annnnd,_ now I'm picturing Bella riding the bus in nothing but her sweet, innocent white cotton set. Not an unpleasant fantasy, but definitely the wrong time to carry this conversation to its logical, explosive conclusion. **_You're killing me here! Hold that thought?_**

 ** _*giggles* Don't worry, baby. I have super boring, baggy clothes on top._**

 ** _Nice try._** We both know she's stretching the truth. Even the more conservative pieces she's bought for Shady Acres visits are nowhere near boring or baggy.

 ** _Aww, I wouldn't want to get you all hot and bothered before you meet your new client!_**

 ** _I appreciate that._** That would most definitely be awkward and awful. Fortunately, I have a perfect record in that regard, not counting that time with Bella in my studio—which was a date, not a shoot. So far, so good.

 ** _Coming up to my stop. Bye for now. Love you._**

 ** _ILY2._**

Yep, I typed that. Anything to make my girl smile. I might be grinning around the last spoonfuls of my breakfast, but oatmeal tells no tales.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  
Hi again! Back for round three (if you count the original contest entry)! Welcome to Edward's head, where we shall dwell for this story. Thank you all for your love of Old School and Hooterella; it was your reviews and PM's and to be quite honest, your voting _Old School_ as your top fanfic pick for February (WOOHOO!) that inspired this sequel.

Many thanks to my big enough umbrella: **Patrizia** (photographic genius and whip-cracker-in-chief), **Ladyeire** (plot coach extraordinaire), **Jan** (expert medical witness), and OBVIOUSLY, my more-than-a-beta, **Chayasara**. Thank you all for dancing with me in the rain!

See you guys soon! MWAH!  
 **XOXOX ~BOH**


	2. Shooting Victoria

**2 SHOOTING VICTORIA**

Enough happy, sappy boyfriend! Time for me to take a time-out and give myself, the photographer, a chance to mentally prepare for a new client.

I open the manila folder beside me and review the notes from our brief phone conversation:

 _Victoria Sutherland.  
Forty, single.  
Diagnosed with breast cancer in 2012. Unilateral mastectomy. Reconstructive surgery completed 2015.  
Referred by Emily Young (breast cancer survivor support group)._

Aside from the breast cancer, Victoria's story bears little similarity to Emily's. A strong, dedicated triathlete in her mid-thirties, Emily built a successful personal training business that brought Mr. Right—aka Sam—right to her door. Sam later confided in me that he'd nursed a terrible crush on Emily for months but didn't work up the nerve to ask her out until she'd helped him lose seventy pounds. Sam proposed after a brief courtship; Emily accepted. Life was great . . . until a "suspicious lump" on Emily's left breast turned their lives inside out. Within weeks of diagnosis, Emily found herself recovering from a double mastectomy. Her prognosis was excellent. Emily powered through two years of intense physical training, individual and group therapy. She returned to her clients and married Sam. Still, she could not forgive her body for betraying her.

Desperate to help, Sam reached out to a hospital social worker, learned about my work, and somehow convinced Emily to talk with me. The three of us met in a coffee shop. Without any photos, I had only words to convince her of my capacity to help. Two cups of tea later, Emily agreed to give me a chance. Sam wept right there at the table.

I saw the change in Emily take root during our photo shoot. When she returned three weeks later to review the photos, her transformation was unmistakable. The phone call last week from one of Emily's fellow support group members was not entirely unexpected; still, it was a thrill to hear that Emily had not stopped beaming.

Victoria's photo shoot was to be her fortieth birthday present to herself, a celebratory end cap to her survivor journey. She seemed to be an extraordinary woman, and I had very much been looking forward to our shoot.

I head downstairs for a final equipment check. If our initial conversation is a fair indication, I don't expect Victoria to require much talk-time in the anteroom. The buzzer rings five minutes before our 8:30 appointment—a good sign. The anxious clients don't show up early.

I wasn't expecting the vivacious redhead who greets me, and apparently, I've surprised her, too.

"Oh! You're Edward Cullen?"

"Yes. Victoria?" I offer her my hand.

" _Ohhh_ ," she says, shaking her long red curls across the shoulders of her cream-colored blouse. "Emily didn't mention—" She waves away the end of her sentence to take my hand. " _Very_ nice to meet you."

"Mention what?"

"That you're, uh . . . wow, this is awkward."

"Sorry, have I done something . . .?" It doesn't bode well for our session to have the client this uncomfortable at the front door while still fully clothed.

"No, not at all. It's totally me. I wasn't expecting you to be so good-looking."

"I see." And I'm blushing. "So, what exactly _did_ Emily say? She must have mentioned this rat's nest on my head. My crooked eyes?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind," she says, "I'm just going to stand right here until the ground swallows me up."

I chuckle, take her gently by the elbow, and steer her inside. "I knew I was gonna like you."

She meets my eyes with a grateful smile. "Emily did mention your sense of humor."

"In a good way?"

"Yes, Edward, in a very good way."

"Okay, let's work with that, then." I lead her into the anteroom. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

"Ah, your portfolio." She draws the photo album closer. "May I?"

"Of course. That's what it's here for."

I slide quietly into the seat beside her while she studies the photos. Most of my clients approach the album with some degree of trepidation, anticipating their own shoot, embarrassed in advance of the intimacy we're about to share, anxious they might not be able to relax or measure up.

There's something different about how Victoria views each page, something practiced and professional. I can't recall discussing what she does for work, but I'd bet dollars to donuts she's a creative type.

"These are stunning, you know." Her compliment strikes me as a statement from one artist to another.

"Thank you. If you're looking for Emily's, I haven't had a chance to add those yet."

"I've already seen them," she says.

"Oh. I didn't realize."

Victoria glances up from the page, green eyes shining back at me. "You didn't know she brought them to group?"

"No." A lump forms in my throat. "She showed them to the whole group? Wow."

"That's why I'm here"—she closes the album, folds her hands on top, and smiles—"not because the photos are gorgeous, which they absolutely _are,_ but because Emily _brought them_ to show all of us. Edward, I can't tell you—" Her gaze drifts away, fills with tears. She tries to speak again, but her lower lip quivers.

I cover her hands with my own. "You don't have to."

"Of course. You were there. Obviously." She smiles again, and we both blink back tears. Her hands wriggle beneath mine, and I release them and wait for her to continue. "I want to be up front with you, Edward."

"Please."

"Have you heard of the Etcetera Gallery on Third Street?"

"Sure."

"That's me."

 _Okay, didn't see that one coming._ "I see."

"Hang on. Don't get all prickly on me, now."

"I'm not prickly."

She folds her arms and shoots me that look my mother gives me when she thinks I'm being hard-headed—a look I've received from Bella more than once, now that I think about it. "Are you sure?"

I stand because this woman can obviously read me too well at close range. "I wasn't prepared for this kind of conversation. I thought you came for a photo shoot."

"I did."

"Huh?"

She stands, too. "I want to hire you for a photo shoot, _and . . ._ on a totally separate note, I'd like you to consider showing your work in my gallery." She waits for me to catch up. "I was worried it might be a little weird if I didn't tell you all that up front. You seem like a man who values honesty."

"Yes, thank you. You didn't want to tell me this on the phone?"

"I was afraid you'd blow me off," she says with a smirk. I have met my match.

"Touché."

"So, you'll entertain the conversation?"

I never have before, but coming from a client referred by another client, sure, I'll listen. "Don't you want to see how the shoot goes first?"

"I've seen all I need to see." I swear, the way she looks at me raises the temperature five degrees.

 _Oh dear._ "I think you might have the wrong idea about me, Victoria."

"How so?"

"I wouldn't . . . I hope you don't think . . ." I wave my fingers back and forth between us hoping she'll take the hint.

"Oh! _Nooooo_!" Her pale skin pinks up. "I just realized how that came out. I was referring to your work! Subtlety is not my forte, but please believe me, I was not offering you gallery space as a come-on."

"Okay." _Take a breath._ "Phew." I sink into the chair, exhausted before we've begun. I am so not ready for this. "Maybe we should discuss your vision for the show before we go any further."

"That sounds like an excellent idea." She sits right next to me, practically knocking knees under the table. Personal space does not seem to be her issue. "You're doing something unique here. You call it 'empowerment photography,' am I right?"

"Yes."

"I first want to say how much I admire your work."

"Thank you."

"I've known Emily for two years. We see each other in group twice a month and at least once on the off-weeks. I went to her wedding last year."

"Must have been very emotional."

"Yes, it was a beautiful day. She and Sam are perfect for each other, and they'd been through so much to reach that point." She acknowledges my nod. "Emily was the most gorgeous bride. Have you seen the wedding pictures?"

"No, she never showed them to me."

"Then you'll have to take my word for it."

"Well, you do have a trained eye . . ."

"Indeed, I do," she responds breezily despite my wisecrack, "which is why I can say without reservation that your photos completely eclipsed her wedding pictures."

"That is quite a compliment. Thank you."

"It's true. I've never been good at flattery. If I don't love something, I'm better off keeping my mouth shut than trying to fake it. I hope you don't mind my being so direct."

A chuckle escapes me. "I'm having a little trouble keeping up, but your honesty is refreshing."

"Everyone in our group commented on Emily's radiance after your shoot. She's an entirely new person. When she showed us her photos, the whole story unfolded before my eyes, a photo-essay documenting her journey from resigned acceptance to . . ." She paused to search for a word. "I don't think I'd be overstating the case to call it _joy_."

"I would have to agree."

"Good," she said with a widening smile. "I find false modesty insufferable."

"I'm not afraid to accept a compliment where one is deserved."

"I hope that means you can also accept constructive criticism from a great admirer of your work?"

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?" I lean into the back of my chair and sigh. This Victoria is pushing my boundaries. I could ask her to drop the subject, and I know she would, but I sense that something important would be lost. "Okay, shoot," I say, preparing myself for impact.

"Look, Edward, I understand your focus is on the individual who comes to your studio, and it's clear you've mastered the art form. Your work is impeccable, and what you achieve one-on-one is nothing short of miraculous."

"But . . .?"

"But I believe you're missing a giant opportunity here. The fact that your subjects aren't models makes them entirely relatable. I look through this album, and I not only _see_ each of these women; I _am_ each woman. I can't remember the last time I felt so uplifted by the experience of viewing a work of art."

"I feel the need to point out the reason that _this"—_ I place my hand on the photo album—"happens in my studio is precisely because the women know their photos will only be viewed by the people they choose to share them with."

She reaches for the album, grasps it between both hands, and holds it there, with my hand resting on top. "You're making my point for me."

 _Whiplash._ "I am?"

"The photos between these covers were all donated by your clients so that other women who may need that inspiration or assurance can benefit from their experience."

"True."

"What do you say to the millions of women who will never have the opportunity to meet you in person?"

 _Gulp._ "Millions? Isn't that a bit grandiose? No offense to your gallery, but that's an awful lot of foot traffic, Victoria."

Her smile opens, and warm laughter spills out. "There's this invention called the internet?"

"Oh, right! I heard some kids talking about 'goggle' the other day. Or was it 'guggle'?"

"There's that sense of humor again," she says, not entirely amused by my deflection tactics. "I didn't mean to freak you out. Let's set the internet presence aside for the moment."

"Or forever," I interject.

"You're the boss. Please think about showing your work in my gallery."

"While I appreciate your offer on so many levels, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. My photos are not for sale."

"Then we won't sell them."

"What?"

Her soft curls shake as a gentle smile appears. "Not everything I do is about the almighty dollar."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you."

"No offense taken. To put it bluntly, I feel it would be tragic to keep your work a secret."

"Luckily, a few people have found me."

"I've made you prickly again."

"I'm not—" _Okay, I am._ "Look, I know this place isn't Picasso's atelier, but I do okay."

"Now you've insulted yourself." She leans back, retracting her hands and her smile.

"My head is spinning over here. How is being satisfied with my work an insult?"

"You're sitting on a game-changer, one that can never be measured in dollars and cents. How many other empowerment photographers do you know?"

"None."

She tilts her head. "I guess you need to ask yourself if you'd like to keep it that way. What do you want your legacy to be, Edward?"

"I'm pretty good with helping hundreds of women a year." I've progressed from prickly to full-on porcupine mode.

"Then I'd say you're doing everything right."

"Why does it suddenly feel like that's not good enough?"

She shifts forward in her seat and pegs me with those intense green eyes. "Because I think you are beginning to contemplate the broader impact you could have by inspiring other artists to do what you do. Empowerment photography could and should be a movement, not a single practitioner."

I bolt from my chair again, pressing the mounting tension between clenched hands. "What if I don't want to be a movement?" _Dammit! How dare she!_ "And who the hell am I to tell other artists how to express themselves?" I pace madly in the tiny space, an angry bull in a tight pen. "What if they're awful and do more harm than good? That'll be on me!"

"What if they're good? Better than you, even?"

I round on her. "That's what you think I'm worried about?

"I think it deserves a place on your list."

"My list is growing by the second."

I scrub my hands over my face, acknowledging each objection that parades through my brain.

 _The careful balance I've struck between work and Bella, upended just as she nears the end of her program—the moment I've patiently awaited to pop the question._

 _The energy shift away from my true passion, the intimate connection between artist and model, redirected into displaying my work and creating a public persona._

 _Dealing with this concept of training other photographers to do what I do when there is no curriculum, no diploma on my wall, no reliable way to replicate what I know and feel when I'm in the studio._

 _Worst of all, the terror of opening myself up to public opinion about my unconventional methods. "Where does he get off, claiming to be an expert at something that doesn't exist?"_

"Edward." She places a gentle hand on my arm. When did she stand? "I understand this is all really scary. I'm sorry to upset your happy apple cart, truly I am, but I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't at least try to communicate to you the trajectory your talent could take."

"I guess you're officially off the hook, then." I try to smile but I'm so far from okay, there's no way I can be convincing.

"I have yet to meet an artist who enjoyed giving up control."

"Now I'm a control freak?"

"No, you're the master of your domain, as it should be. This is your space, and I would not deign to tell you what to do inside these walls."

"But the rest of the world is yours?"

She shrugs. "I feel confident I can be an effective guide."

I might not love the implications of what she's dropped at my feet, but I can't deny this woman knows her business. "I believe you."

"I wish I could tell you exactly how this will all turn out, but when you drop a pebble into a pond, you have no way of knowing how far the ripples might extend."

"I don't have a problem with not knowing. Uncertainty is inherent in the creative process—desirable, even. I never know where a session will lead. I don't have a predetermined destination in mind."

"Exactly. I know you like to disappear behind your camera, but I see you, Edward. I see your talent and your heart. I see how you listen and coax and heal. Your creative process is intensely beautiful and radically important."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were flattering me."

She chuffs. "But you do."

"I have to tell you, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed."

"Of course. I understand you have concerns, and you need some time to sit with the idea. When you're ready, I'd like us to explore the possibilities together."

Not "if" but "when." This lady has some balls.

A huff flies out of me. "I don't want to get your hopes up, Victoria."

"Not to worry," she responds with a knowing grin. "I never mind having a little extra hope lying around. Never know when you might need it."

 _Said the breast cancer survivor._

"I'm really glad you shared all this with me before our session, but I'm not in the right frame of mind to put you in front of my camera right now. Would you mind very much if we rescheduled?"

"Not at all. Why don't you call me when you're ready?"

"Ready for which?"

"Whatever you like, Edward. I'm ready for anything."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Looks like Edward has yet another strong woman in his life. Can he stand it?  
Oh, you saw that line about the question pop, did ya? *wink*

Thanks for all your excitement for the new story and for EPOV. Oh, what a head to play inside! MWAH!  
 **XOXO ~BOH**


	3. To The Rescue

**3 TO THE RESCUE**

A menagerie of business students files out of Dannin Hall in pairs. I've probably met a third of Bella's 200-plus classmates at various points, over work sessions at Mrs. C's or drinks after class. Many of them know me well enough to call out greetings as they walk by, especially when I'm standing here under my trademark umbrella.

I am bursting with questions: Where's Bella? How'd she do? Who'd she get? But I'm what Bella likes to call a "grown-ass man," so I wave back and wait under my umbrella in the pounding rain with my mouth shut and my heart in my throat.

Finally, Bella spills out of the heavy doors with a man I don't recall meeting—and I wouldn't have forgotten those fashion-magazine cheekbones or the perfectly trimmed facial hair. The two of them, huddled over their cellphones, meander right out into the rain without paying any attention.

"Bella!" I charge toward her, umbrella extended like Zorro's sword. "You're getting soaked!"

Bella leans in and plants a wet kiss on my lips. "Looks like you were right about the forecast."

"So, this is the famous Edward?"

I spin around to address the man getting drenched beside us. No umbrella, no waterproof gear. Flash over function.

"Here, come under," I offer though there's barely room for Bella and me.

"I'm fine." The man's hair hangs in dark blond rivulets around his face, his eyelashes dripping fat raindrops onto his cheeks, but he shows no interest in shelter. "Hey. I'm Riley." He extends his hand, and I juggle the umbrella and reach around Bella to shake it. His grasp is wet but firm.

"I'm famous Edward, I guess." I look to Bella for some kind of explanation but she just smiles and shrugs. "I take it you two are partners?"

Riley grins and shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "Yep. How lucky am I?"

Good manners prevent me from telling him he's the luckiest son-of-a-gun in the class.

Bella gushes right back. "Actually, I'm the one who scored. Riley has actual, real-world experience directly related to our industry. Edward, are you ready for this? Our case study is a family-owned bakery!"

"Be still my heart."

She giggles. "Didn't I tell you he'd be jealous?" She and Riley share a look that gives me that prickly feeling again. If this keeps up, I'm going to sprout actual quills.

"You just happened to score a bakery as your final project?"

Bella fills in the blanks while Riley nods along. "They divided our whole cohort into eight random groups. Our group was presented with a dozen cases, and each of us ranked our top three choices. Obviously, once I heard the bakery story, I had to choose that. As it turns out, Riley also put the bakery as his number one choice, which makes sense considering his background."

I turn to Riley. "You're a baker?"

"Not exactly." His eyes catch Bella's and flash with amusement.

Bella finishes the explanation as Riley feigns humility, and it strikes me that Victoria would not buy what he's selling. "Riley was working as an analyst at Fireman Capital when they purchased the Dunkin Donuts franchises in South Florida."

"Ah," I say, because it sounds much more mature than "Whoop-dee-doo."

Riley leans under the umbrella. "Not that acquisition is necessarily the recommendation we'll make, but if it is . . ."

Bella finishes his sentence. "We kind of have the answer key."

"Well, sounds like you two are all set . . ." _Hint, hint._

"I'll text you tonight, Bella?"

"Sounds good," she answers.

"Very nice to meet you, Riley."

"Pleasure's mine," he answers, extending his soggy hand for a goodbye shake. "Later, Bella." He jogs away, backpack slapping against his preppy, navy blue, not-waterproof pea coat. _Youth._

"I sure hope there's a dry towel waiting for your friend wherever he's headed."

Bella giggles and loops her arm around my elbow. "Not everyone is lucky enough to have a superhero standing by."

"Are you kidding? I've been doing my rain dance all morning just so I could swoop in and save you."

Her eyes light up with an idea I already know I won't like. "I'm gonna need you to perform that dance for me later . . . in your Umbrella Man costume." _Yep, I was right._

"Too bad your case study isn't a lingerie manufacturing plant. You have all that vast inside information."

"Ho, ho, ho. Somehow, I think this bakery gig is going to work out better for you," she says. "I see pastry in your future."

"That works for me though I'm not sure I would've minded the lingerie." The rain picks up, and we snuggle closer—our little dry island for two—but we can't stand here forever. "We should go."

"Do you have time for a cup of coffee?" she asks.

"With my girl? Always."

Her smile lights up the drab day. "Heroic _and_ sweet."

"Are those boots waterproof?" Patent leather, plastic, rubber . . . I really can't tell.

"Close enough. Did you want to walk to the Last Drop?"

"That would be great."

Bella knows me well enough to recognize my favorite stress-reliever, the pitter-patter of raindrops on my umbrella. She squeezes my arm. "Hey, did something happen during your shoot this morning?"

Well, let's see. The earth shook and rattled everything I thought I knew. "Actually, yes, but we don't have to talk about it now."

She pivots to search my eyes for clues, a triage nurse assessing the damage. "Edward?"

I'm shit at hiding my feelings, especially from Bella. "I don't want to appropriate your big morning."

"I'm a very good sharer."

That deserves a snort. "Bella, you're a terrible sharer. You take one bite, two _tops,_ and make me eat the rest."

"Hey, buddy, nobody says you have to finish every dessert we order."

"Blasphemy!"

"I'm pretty sure blasphemy takes a back seat in the sin department to working full-time at Hooters." She coaxes me forward, and we start off down the sidewalk.

"I won't deny you're pure sin in that uniform."

"Are you ready to talk yet, or should we talk about my boobs some more?"

"How do you know I wasn't talking about your ass?" I give her a _take-that!_ smirk that makes her roll her eyes.

"I'm here when you're ready," says the bartender in her—or as I like to tease when she pulls out more than I'm ready to share, _the extractor._ Seriously, it's Bella's superpower, meant with only the kindest intentions, which is why I sing like a bird.

"So, it turns out my client this morning owns a gallery downtown, and she'd like me to show my work."

"Wow, that's cool!"

"Not just _show_ my work, though. Victoria thinks I should start some kind of movement . . . create an army of empowerment photographers and save the world!" My voice has risen to a rafters-rattling pitch, so it's not surprising when Bella turns to me with concern written all over her face.

"Oh dear. That sounds a bit . . . intense.""To put it mildly."

"How would you put it?" she asks gently.

I've reflected on my meeting with Victoria all morning, but I've hardly sorted out my feelings. "Imagine you're crossing the street—at a crosswalk, with the light—when all of a sudden, this truck comes barreling down the street and slams into you."

"Youch!"

"Exactly. No bones were broken, just got the wind knocked out of me. But as I'm dusting myself off, I realize it was a funnel cake truck that hit me."

"You got hit by a funnel cake truck?"

"I'm trying to convey that there was an element to the experience that wasn't entirely unpleasant."

"I see," she says. "Well, I'm sure it was flattering to have this woman view you as the potential savior of mankind."

"I suppose."

"Did you tell her your girlfriend has dibs on your superhero skills?"

"What happened to being a good sharer?"

She tightens her grip on my arm. "That does not apply to you!"

A warm rush of affection pulses through my veins. "Glad to hear that."

"So, what did you tell the funnel cake truck driver?"

"I told her I'd need some time to think about it."

"What's your gut telling you?"

"That I need to restock my antacid shelf." I'm only half-kidding. My stomach hasn't stopped churning since Victoria left my studio.

"Aww. It's a really exciting opportunity. When's the last time you showed any of your work publicly?"

"Honestly, I haven't even thought about showing my work since I started down this path. Besides, the photos don't belong to me."

"Couldn't you ask for permission to exhibit them," she asks, "the way you do with your photo albums?"

"You know how intimate those photographs are. The best pictures represent the most difficult moments for my clients. Even if money were involved, I can't imagine any of them going for the idea."

"Didn't this woman, Victoria, come to you today because another client was moved to share her experience to help a friend? I think you underestimate the strength and generosity of the women you help."

"Come on, Bella. It's one thing to help a friend or another person in crisis. It's quite another to be viewed by random strangers who happen to wander through a gallery. And I failed to mention that Victoria plans to post everything to her website. We both know there's no control over an image once it hits the internet."

"Yes, I learned that from my mother." She grins.

"Oh Lord. What are your parents going to think of me when they see these photos?"

"Pshhh. C'mon, Edward. You know you walk on water with them." The familiar contradiction rings through: while Bella loves that her parents have embraced me, she remains frustrated that she's had to work so long and so hard to gain their acceptance.

Stepping purposefully into the puddle in front of us, I say, "If they could see me now . . ."

"Whatever." We are in complete agreement on this topic, and there's nothing to be gained by dwelling. "Back to the topic at hand, don't you think those women who cheerfully donate their images might be pleased to have the chance to inspire even more people? Who knows how far this might reach?"

Victoria's pebble-in-a-pond metaphor pops to mind. "So 'more' equals 'better'? Automatically?"

Bella gives me a hard stare, most likely because I'm flip-flopping back and forth like a sailboat in a monsoon.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass. I'm asking, honestly, because I need help working this through. Am I being a selfish bastard to be happy with my career as it is? If you want to measure in dollars and cents, I'm doing fine. I've socked away enough for a down payment on a bigger house, and my hourly rate is on a par with any of the respected photographers I know. I don't need the publicity. Frankly, I don't know how many more clients I would want to take on."

"You know one of the qualities I admire most about you is your artistic integrity. I hope you don't think that just because I'm in business school, I see your dilemma in terms of quantity or dollars. But on a purely humanitarian scale, wouldn't you like to be able to help even more people?"

"In theory, sure, all things being equal."

"Are all things not equal?" she asks.

"If I could be guaranteed that every woman—or man—down the line would walk away from the experience changed for the better, I'd say yes in a heartbeat. There's no . . . 'answer key' as you put it. When I'm in that studio, each client is a new mystery to solve. How do I know what exact training or life experience I call upon at any given moment? I don't like to admit this, but sometimes I'm not sure what the hell I'm doing."

"Oh, Edward. I know you like to think you can plan everything out, but nobody expects you to know everything all the time. The important thing is you have the heart and the talent to figure it out when the challenge is in front of you. That's your gift."

"Thank you for that. And I'm sorry for turning this conversation into 'Confessions of the Insecure Artist.' I'm actually fine with my methods. After all these years, I have enough faith to know everything will work out by the end of each shoot. It's the idea of opening myself up to critique about my methods that really sets me on edge."

"Maybe you don't have to divulge the details of your process. What if there's another way?"

"Such as?"

"A middle ground between staying in the shadows and exposing yourself, so to speak, to the world?"

A grin widens across my face. "Are you about to suggest I go out and buy a big, goofy pair of dark-rimmed glasses to disguise myself, Lois?"

Bella stops in her tracks and pivots to face me. " _God,_ that would be so hot. Would you?" I'm not entirely sure she's teasing until she giggles.

I fix her with a glare that cannot possibly intimidate her. "Do you think Superman has to put up with this type of abuse from his girlfriend?"

"Oh, I'm sure of it," she answers with that naughty twinkle in her eye, "and he probably loves it, just like you do."

"And why would I love it?" Bella never ceases to entertain me with her fascinating theories.

She slips her arms around my back and gazes deep into my eyes. "Because even superheroes, maybe _especially_ superheroes"—she leans in and kisses me—"need to know there's someone"— _kiss_ —"they can let down their guard with at home, so they can go out into the world and be fabulous."

"As usual, you make a good point. And extra style points for doing so while kissing me in the rain." _Take that, Lois Lane!_ "Tell me more about this middle ground."

She takes my non-umbrella-encumbered hand and tugs me toward the door of Last Drop. "Caffeine first, answers later."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : I loved that so many of you KNEW Edward would seek Bella's opinion on his dilemma. Were you surprised by her advice? Thoughts on Riley?

Speaking of advice, I really can't say enough about the amazing support I receive on each chapter from my umbrella team. Thank you, **Patrizia, Ladyeire,** and **Chayasara** , for helping me frame the conflict and draw out the nuances until they resonate in print the way they do in my head. Each of you adds so much to the process and the final product. MWAH!

If you're not in my Facebook group ( **Born's Pumpkin Patch** ), you might be missing teasers and picspirations from the story. Join us?  
 **XOXO ~BOH**


	4. Victoria, Take Two

**4 VICTORIA, TAKE TWO**

I'm not the fastest deliberator on the planet, but Victoria seems to know better than to press me for an answer. After a week of pondering the pros and cons of Bella's idea, polling a sample of my clients, and getting Mom's thoughts over meatloaf, I'm ready to approach the conversation again with Victoria. With my talking points printed out in front of me, I dial her cell.

"Well hello, Mr. Cullen. How are you?"

"I'm well, Victoria. Yourself?"

"Never better."

"Glad to hear it. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Of course. I've been looking forward to your call."

"I've put a lot of thought into your offer," I begin as planned.

"And?"

"And I believe there is some merit to considering an exhibition of my work."

"That sounds like an excellent place to start." I can hear the hope blossom in her tone. _Not so fast, Ms. Movement-starter._

"I took to heart what you shared about being inspired by the photos. After much reflection, I do like the idea of being able to reach a wider audience— _not_ to line my own pockets with money, but to spread that inspiration beyond my own limited market."

"Great."

" _But_ "—my heart skitters a bit—"I need to be sure that we can guarantee my clients we'll honor their voices in the way we share their backstories."

"Of course, Edward. Your models are welcome to collaborate on the wall text, and we can modify the wording of the release forms to cover not just the images but any verbiage as well."

"That sounds reasonable." I'm not sure why I expected Victoria to put up more of a fight over the presentation of the show itself, but her answer is certainly refreshing. "Can you tell me what you have in mind for scope and scale?"

"I don't have any hard and fast rules about number of models or images per model," she answers. "Some of that will depend on the timing and what other works are hanging in the gallery. Once you give me some idea what you'd like to show, we can decide together how much space is appropriate, then play with the mix of words versus images. I see us working closely to manage all the moving parts. The goal is to end up with something that feels balanced and artistic to both of us."

"Fair enough."

"What else is on your mind, Edward?"

The next item on my list looms large: the internet.

"I know I can be a bit . . . old-fashioned sometimes, especially where social media is concerned, but unless you can somehow convince me otherwise, I am opposed to having my images posted on the internet, even heavily watermarked."

"This might shock you, but I'm not going to try to change your mind."

"That's a relief," I say, and we both enjoy a little chuckle. "I'm kind of curious, though. Why are you letting me off the hook so easily?"

She laughs again. "You're a piece of work, Mr. Cullen. You know that?"

"So I've been told once or twice."

"Since we've agreed not to sell your images or reproductions online, there's no direct monetary incentive to either one of us to post them. Your work portrays intimate moments between photographer and subject; let's continue to honor that relationship by limiting the viewing window to gallery visitors. And frankly, I don't want to add another hurdle to your convincing your models to release their rights for the show."

"Thank you for all of that. I appreciate your understanding."

"The tradeoff, of course, is that one cannot be inspired by what one never sees." I should have known she'd offer a counterpoint. "So by not posting your images, you work directly against your motivation for showing your work: to spread inspiration far and wide."

 _And now, for the part she's not going to like_ . . . "About that. I'm an artist, not a crusader. I wouldn't be opposed to other artists picking up on the idea of empowering their subjects through creative, compassionate photography, but it would not be my mission to grow the field. What's most important to me is being present for the client standing in front of me in my studio."

Victoria doesn't respond right away, and when she does speak again, her words sound measured and much more careful. "If I'm hearing you correctly, you're game to show your work and possibly serve as an inspiration to other photographers, but you're not interested in taking your focus, so to speak, off your private clients in order to train other artists in your methods?"

I don't love the way that sounded just now, but I've worked through my motives with the people whose opinions I respect most. I'm comfortable with my personal mission.

"Honestly, Victoria, if I felt I had some sort of replicable routine I could share with others, I absolutely would. The truth is, what I create with each client draws heavily on the unique chemistry between the two of us. I could no more create an instruction manual for . . . two people to fall in love."

"Wow," she says.

 _Wow_ is right. "I'm, uh, not sure where that came from."

She huffs softly into the phone. "I believe it came from the depth of your soul."

"As cheesy as that sounds, I have to agree with you."

"Okay. You've made your point . . . resoundingly. I promise not to push you again on the subject of crusading."

"Thank you—"

"But I would be remiss if I didn't interject a word of warning."

"What kind of warning?" I brace myself—or try to—for whatever Victoria might throw at me.

"Based on my knowledge of you as a man and an artist, you're bound to have a very difficult time not feeling responsible for what you set into motion—what _we_ set into motion."

"I suppose there's no getting around that."

"Not if you're a man of conscience, and we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now if you weren't."

"Thank you for all your faith in me, Victoria. It means so much. Truly."

"It's all well deserved. Did you have any other conditions we need to discuss?"

"Yes," I tell her, "just one more. Before we go any further, we need to do your shoot. I don't want you promoting something you only know secondhand."

"When's your first opening?"

"Oh, let me check my calendar." As usual, Victoria has knocked me slightly off balance.

Thumbing through my appointment book, I can't help but notice the glaring hole in this afternoon's schedule. Can I trust myself to shift gears so abruptly?

Part of me would like to push off this session with Victoria, but the bolder voice overrules caution. Nothing significant in my life was ever achieved by waiting around or taking the safe route. If I hadn't left the lucrative world of wedding gigs every weekend, I never would have found my destiny in empowerment photography. If I hadn't pursued my crush on a certain brunette in need of an umbrella, my sweet Bella would have been "the one who got away." _Shudder._

I can do this. Besides, what's the worst that can happen? "Professional me" lapsing into "human me"? Victoria getting a glimpse behind the wizard's curtain? If she doesn't like what she sees, I'd rather find out now than halfway through the process of pulling together a show.

"How's two o'clock?"

.

.

.

So far, so good. We've agreed to skip the low light phase of the shoot. No reason to linger in darkness when the subject is eager to be seen.

Victoria sits casually on the edge of the stool, dressed in a flowy, silk blouse tucked into a pair of tailored gray slacks with her pumps resting on the rung of the stool. Her posture is excellent, the product of years of yoga and discipline, not merely a temporary tweak before a camera snap.

I hang back, raise my camera, and take the first few shots. "Where would you like to start, Victoria?"

"Did you want to hear about my childhood?" I capture her smirk with the soft whir of my shutter.

"If that's where your story begins . . ."

"I can tell you where it didn't begin—with cancer," she states defiantly. "And it doesn't end there either."

She seems hyper-aware of the camera, fixing her gaze on the lens. I move in a wide arc around her. Her head pivots to track me, but her shoulders hold firm.

"Tell me about your love of art. When did you first discover your passion?"

Her eyebrows quirk. _Click—gotcha!_ "Probably in kindergarten when I realized I had absolutely no talent for drawing or painting."

"Isn't that kind of a harsh judgment on a five-year-old?"

She chuffs. "I think it actually says something more positive about my discerning eye."

"There must have been some talented finger-painters in your class."

"Everyone has to start somewhere," she answers with a widening grin. I find myself smiling as well.

"So there you are, between nap time and snack, when you discover little Johnny's got a way with the color yellow . . ."

Ignoring my prompt, she sighs. "I hadn't anticipated how many pictures you were going to take of me in this outfit."

I lower my camera. "Is that a problem?"

"This is going to sound stupid, but I don't really like this top. I kind of feel like I'm dressed for a meeting with my lawyer." She chuckles, but her discomfort is clear.

"Did you want to go ahead and slip out of your clothes?"

"I do, yes."

"Would you be more comfortable working with draping?"

"No," she says with that sly smile. "Would you?"

Her quick comeback is a defense mechanism. It's possible Victoria is a little more uneasy than she'd like to let on.

"I'm good with whatever works for you."

"I'm fine." Without hesitation, Victoria reaches for the top button of her blouse.

I put the camera to work again, watching Victoria carefully through my 35mm lens. She opens three buttons, then strikes a pose with her hands on her hips. If Victoria has prior modeling experience, she failed to mention it in our earlier conversations. I oblige with a string of pictures.

She turns slightly, lifts her chin, and stares off at a spot over my shoulder, as if moving according to instructions only she can hear—instructions I certainly wouldn't have given. She's stiff, composed. A series of photos lining a wall, rather than a woman moving in her own skin.

 _Time for a distraction_. "What kind of music do you like?"

"It depends what I'm doing."

"Let's say, for the sake of argument, you're getting undressed."

Her grin returns. "Then I suppose I'd need stripper music."

"Burlesque or _Magic Mike_?"

I've called her bluff, and she takes it with a good-natured smile. "Actually, how about something New Age? You know, harps and chimes? Just nothing with water sounds, please, or I'll have to keep running to the bathroom."

"Can do." I fiddle with my iPad until I've found the spa playlist. The first track starts, and the mood instantly feels lighter. What would I do without music? "Here we go. Okay, let's try to keep it fluid."

She interprets my comment as a mandate to unfasten the rest of the buttons. Shrugging out of her blouse, she tilts her head back and gazes down her nose at an angle that will not please her when she sees the photos.

"I want you to forget all about the camera."

"If it's all the same to you, Edward, I'd prefer to see you as an artist in his element. Otherwise, I'm just taking off my clothes for a random man." I catch my first glimpse of Victoria's embarrassment.

" _Random_?" As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I wish I could retract it. The woman is half naked and finally allowing herself to show a vulnerable side. No good can come of following this detour.

Before I can apologize and set us right, she picks up the thread. "Not totally random," she says. "Obviously, a very kind man with a nice smile and a gentle way with words."

I can feel the heat on my cheeks. Victoria's instincts were on point; viewing me in any light other than professional will definitely will not be productive, especially as she bares more and more of her body.

I've experienced awkward moments before. I can handle this. "Let me see if I can find the right 'gentle words' to set us back on track."

She folds her hands in her lap. "Please."

I'm not entirely sure whether I'm soothing my client or auditioning for the gallery owner. I guess Victoria isn't the only one in this room working at dual purposes.

"Your point is well taken," I tell her. "As an _artist_ , what I see through my lens is your living, breathing interpretation of what these photos of you might look like hanging on the wall."

She huffs. "Occupational hazard?"

"I get it. Believe me, I often find myself fighting the instinct to make this all about the almighty photo instead of the process. But if that's all I see, I won't see _you_."

Her sheepish grin cuts through the tension. "Good thing I promised not to tell you what to do in your own studio."

"Good thing," I repeat, my own grin mirroring hers. "Would you believe that letting go of control is more difficult for some people than taking off their clothes?"

"Guilty as charged," she says.

"Look, Victoria, you are a bold, confident woman, and that comes across more clearly than you might realize. You don't need to work at it. Just let your movement flow naturally, and I promise, I will find you."

Her tension floats away on the tail of a deep exhale, making way for a brilliant smile. "I know you will."

I bow my head to acknowledge Victoria's confidence in me. If asked to pinpoint the most powerful moment in any shoot, I would invoke this exact event: when the bond of genuine mutual trust takes hold between artist and subject. Only then can the spark of artistic creation come to life.

Raising my camera, I refocus on the subject before me, and we begin.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** It seems Old School came down around the same place as most of you with his decision to go forward with the gallery show on his own terms. Sometimes, I think you guys know him better than I do!

One of the ideas that excited me most about writing this EPOV sequel was the chance to explore Edward's professional photo shoots from inside the head of the artist. Only one tiny problem: I know diddly squat about photography! I worked **Patrizia** especially hard during the writing of this chapter, riddling her with a bajillion questions about cameras, lenses, straps, lighting, and more. Seriously, the woman deserves a medal for putting up with me! Much love, too, to master plot planner **LadyV** and beta-galore **Chayasara** for their contributions and suggestions, both subtle and grand.

I really love reading your thoughtful reviews. Thanks so much for your passion for these characters!  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	5. Date Night

**5 DATE NIGHT**

I pride myself on being a gentleman. Decorum is important. It's not a huge leap to say the future of all civilization depends on each of us subduing our inner caveman. After all, what would the world look like if we all just reached out and grabbed what we wanted?

Most of the time, I don't find this a challenge. Being a grown-ass man of forty-five, I've had quite a bit of practice at this point. Still, I'll occasionally experience moments like this one where I can barely contain my basest urges, and I have to admit that Neanderthal Man is not entirely bred out of me, despite my mother's best efforts.

I blame Bella. No other woman has ever driven me to disregard my manners the way she does. After seven days and nights apart, it's no wonder I do a lousy job with the small talk when I go to pick her up.

Mrs. C takes it in stride, as she always has, grinning at me as I press a bouquet of daisies into her hands and peer over her shoulder to look for my girl.

"She's not quite ready yet," Mrs. Cope says.

"Oh."

She pats my cheek and chuckles sweetly. "You know, you're ten minutes early."

"I know." Can't blame a guy for trying.

"Honestly, Edward. Bella could have borrowed my car to go down the street and spared you this song and dance."

"But then I wouldn't have had the chance to deliver these in person."

"Mmhmm. You were just here for dinner two nights ago . . . or have you forgotten our date?"

I lean in and give Shelly a kiss on the cheek. "Of _course_ I haven't. I just finished the leftover chicken you sent home with me. Delicious as ever."

"My, my! Someone's been cooking with garlic."

This is not welcome news. I plan to kiss Bella very soon and very deeply.

"Do I have bad breath?" I exhale into my hand and take a quick whiff.

Shelly's easy laughter soothes me. "Not at all, not that it would matter one whit to Bella. You kids . . ." She trails off with a shake of her head.

Right on cue, Bella skips down the stairs, her eyes lighting up as they land on me. "Wait a second . . . I think I remember you."

Shelly backs away so as not to get crushed in our ridiculously overwrought hug. At least I'm not the only one feeling this way. Seriously, it's only been a week, but for us, that's a long damn time. I plant a serious kiss on Bella's lips, and she doesn't recoil in horror, so I guess my breath is just fine. Hers is positively irresistible.

"Mmm, you taste like a donut factory." I dip in for another taste. This might be a dessert-first night.

Bella pulls back with a giggle. "I might have brought you home an apple fritter from our site visit."

"I think I'm in love with your project."

"Fickle, fickle!" She graces me with a brilliant smile. "And here I thought I was the love of your life."

I squeeze her tight against my body. "Do not make me choose."

"Don't worry. I'm way smarter than that."

Shelly pipes up. "Would you two please leave now so I can enjoy my supper in peace?"

"Yeah, yeah," Bella says as she hurries toward her bags lined up near the door. "I'll be home after my shift tomorrow, Mrs. C."

I squeeze Shelly's hand and leave her with a wink. "I'll see you next week."

"Goodbye, handsome."

I have to practically run to beat Bella to the car door. I feel like a horny kid on prom night as I tuck her inside and scoot my ass into the driver's seat ASAP. I can either lean over and kiss Bella, or I can get us to my house. I choose the latter and throw the car into reverse.

"Do you realize," Bella asks, "this is the longest we've been apart since we started dating?"

"Wait, that can't be true. What about that vacation you took last summer with your friend Kate?"

"Six nights."

Her quick answer warms my heart. Nice to know I'm not the only one counting. "Maybe we shouldn't let this happen again." I float the idea cautiously. I don't ever want to be one of "those" boyfriends.

"Amen."

She reaches for my hand between the seats. I can afford to sacrifice one hand on the wheel for the three blocks between my house and hers. About a minute and a half later, we're pulling into my driveway. "Do not even _attempt_ to open your own door when this car stops." I've used my stern voice just to be sure.

"Wouldn't think of it," she answers, resting her head against the seat and smiling at me.

Now that we're here, I don't have to hold back my impulse to kiss her, although when it turns into a grind-fest against the car door, I pull away and bring her inside my house before we end up on the evening news.

"It smells like heaven in here," she says. "You made spaghetti?"

"Yes. I thought we could both use some comfort food."

She breezes into the kitchen, gives the sauce a stir, and brings a taste to her lips. "Mmm."

I can't resist pressing in against her back and circling her waist with both hands. "I don't suppose you want to have sex before dinner?"

"You really should've brought that up before I tasted the sauce."

I let her off the hook with a soft chuckle and a kiss on her temple. Really, how could I fault Bella after dating _eat-dessert-first-ask-questions-later_ me for two years?

The salad awaits us on the table; the chianti has breathed. I even placed a candle near the bud vase earlier, which I light as we sit down. A contented sigh leaves Bella as she relaxes into the chair. There are few sounds that please me more.

" _Ahhh._ This is so nice, Edward. Thank you."

"Here's to a quiet night alone."

"Cheers." She clinks my glass and gives me a smile that makes me ache for later.

We've done more texting than talking lately, not a trend that pleases me. I'll never be satisfied with sound bites of Bella's life. Our first sips of wine ease us back to connection and conversation.

"I want to hear all about your site visit to Orlovs'."

"It was so great. You would love this place, Edward. The shop has this old-world feel to it—giant, flour-covered worktables right behind the counter so you can watch the bakers at work, tall baskets filled with fresh loaves of bread warm from the oven, cozy little bistro tables where people can sit and enjoy a pastry and a cup of coffee—it is so charming! And the best part: three generations working side by side, Pop-Pop, his daughter, and granddaughter."

"The grandfather still bakes? How old is he?"

"Seventy-three."

"Wow! Talk about old school!"

"Yep. According to his daughter, Irina, Pop has really slowed down in the last six months." Bella starts in on her Caesar salad, which she chews with a dreamy expression on her face. "I hope I'll find something I'm that passionate about one day."

"Ahem! What am I, chopped liver?"

Bella rolls her eyes. "I was referring to work—although you can certainly be a piece of work when you want to." She grins around her fork, softening the blow.

"So, what's the deal with this bakery? Sounds like they're doing okay. How did they become a business school case study?"

I realize I haven't put any food in my stomach to neutralize the wine, and I'm already feeling it. I catch up on my salad while Bella fills in the backstory.

"It's your typical little-guy-versus-corporation scenario. David and Goliath. With Pop's health failing, Irina is caught in the middle. She wants to keep the shop running, partly out of respect for her father's legacy but also because baking is the only trade she and her daughter, Sasha, have ever known. The two women can see the writing on the wall. They know their competition has the resources to price them right out of the market any time they choose. The Orlovs have their customer base, but as their production levels slip, they need to charge more just to stay afloat. There's a limit to what the market will bear. People will be loyal to their neighborhood shop to a point, but there's only so much you can charge for a donut."

"That sounds heartbreaking."

"I know. You should hear Pop-Pop talk about coming to America with his new bride in the late sixties. He's so proud of the fact that every floorboard of the bakery was set by someone who came here from his village near Kiev; every light and appliance wired by someone related by blood. He got a bit misty-eyed telling us how he still bakes a batch of vatrushkas every single day to honor his wife's memory."

"I'm afraid to ask what a vatrushka is. I need another pastry craving like I need a hole in my head."

"From Pop-Pop's description, it sounds like the Russian equivalent of a cheese Danish. Riley and I didn't get a chance to sample any. They usually sell out before noon."

"They must have their regulars who come in every day to get one."

"No doubt," she says. "They're such a sweet, hardworking family. I really hope we can come up with a solution."

"Of course you will, Bella. Are you done with your salad?"

"Yes," she says, rising with her bowl in hand.

"Sit. Relax. I got this."

I leave Bella to her wine and her thoughts while I check on the garlic bread. I can hardly take credit for anything more than slathering a little olive oil and garlic on top and throwing it in the oven. I have to admit, I rarely pause to consider all the time and energy that goes into baking the various varieties of bread that magically appear on the grocery store shelves. Personally, I've never had the patience for baking, and the idea of waking every morning before sunrise does not entice me, but from that very first coq-au-vin I slaved over for Bella, I have come to appreciate the appeal of bringing joy into another person's life via their taste buds—especially when that person is someone you love the way I love Bella.

She knows this, of course, so maybe she lays it on a little thick when I set down the spaghetti and garlic bread in front of her, but who could ever complain about being over-appreciated? Not _moi_ —especially when that first bite of spaghetti draws out a moan that is kissin' cousins to Bella's sex sounds.

"You keep this up, young lady, and we are going to have to skip dessert."

"Pshhh. As if." With a knowing grin, she breaks off a corner of garlic bread, sets it on her tongue, and follows up her prelude with a full-on "O-face."

She proceeds to trap a strand of spaghetti between the tines of her fork and twirl as if she has all the time in the world. I counter her torturous show by role-modeling an efficient, yet mannerly, twirl that will get us to the bedroom before the eleven-o'clock news. She rests her fork against the inside of her bowl and draws a leisurely sip of wine from her goblet. I clear my throat. She hits me with the garlic moan a second time.

" _Really_?" My needy tone isn't helping my cause.

The corners of her mouth lift ever so slightly. She loves teasing me almost as much as I love being teased. "It's your own fault, Edward."

"Is it, now?" I twirl, chew, and swallow—like a normal person.

"Obviously. If you'd made grilled chicken or fish for dinner, we'd be rolling around in your bed right now."

"I'll keep that in mind next time I'm planning the menu."

She reaches for her wine, and her expression softens. I feel a reprieve coming on. "I can't imagine you've had much time for planning menus or pretty much anything beyond the scope of your show lately."

"No, but the good news is I've identified which photos I want to show and reached out to my clients to get their permission."

"That's great! Sounds like you're ahead of schedule." Her radiant smile hurts my heart a little bit, which is . . . odd. "Edward? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

Her forehead squinches. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, of course not."

All she did was flash that world-rocking smile at me, that smile only _I_ can put on her face, my very favorite image to capture with my lens—an image conspicuously missing from the collection I pitched to Victoria.

 _Damn._

I'd probably be grateful for the clarity if it didn't churn my gut.

"Edward, what is going on? Are you having another acid reflux attack?"

"That was one time! And the sausage was extremely spicy!"

Where a lesser woman might push back after such an outburst, Bella quietly holds her ground. I'm not off the hook, but she'll wait. Her patience draws me out every time—even when I'm not sure what's wrong. She reaches over and covers my hand. It's the relentless _stroke, stroke, stroke_ of her thumb across my knuckles that finds its way to the heart of the problem.

"Am I really going to turn over a collection that supposedly represents my best work and not have a single photo of you in the bunch? You know you're the best inspiration I've ever had."

I'm reeling from the aftermath of this sledgehammer of a revelatory moment, and Bella simply shrugs.

"Then, put me in." _How very Bella of her_. As if it were that easy.

"I guess I am feeling a little 'old school' right now about sharing my private photos of you with the world. I hope you don't think I'm being a stick-in-the-mud."

"No offense, but isn't that a bit hypocritical when you're asking as much of your models—women who were far more vulnerable when they came to you than I was?" Bella didn't exactly "come to me," but that's not the point.

"It's all about context. I took those pictures of you during the act of making love—"

"Or fucking our brains out," she interjects with a self-satisfied smirk.

" _Ahem_. Yes, that too." Vivid memories of our most recent romp distract me momentarily: a lazy binge-watch of _The Bachelor_ inspiring a particularly creative session involving the back of the couch, a pile of pillows, and some strategically-placed guacamole. "Okay, whatever. Not-a-studio shoot is what I'm saying. This is supposed to be an exhibit of my empowerment photography."

Her hand slips away from mine, and with it, her playful demeanor. "I think I'm jealous."

"Of what?"

"All these other women get to be the living proof of how amazing you are, and I'm the one who really knows."

"Bella, if you'll recall, you didn't require any coaxing on my part to take off your clothes."

"But that was never my issue."

"I'm sorry, you've lost me." I know exactly enough to realize Bella is about to shine the light where I cannot see, even if she seems to be figuring it out herself as we go.

"You've explained to me that you help your clients appreciate their inner beauty so they can focus on what really matters, what's beyond the scars or cellulite or wrinkles."

"So, you _have_ been paying attention."

She barrels on past my deflection. "Maybe I don't have more than a couple of minor hang-ups about my body, but that doesn't mean you haven't empowered me just as much."

I chance meeting Bella's eyes though mine sting with tears, but she's only getting started.

"Before I met you, I bounced around from one loser to another. I didn't really see anything wrong with that at the time. I justified everything with the blanket excuse that I was young. I had time to burn. But you helped me realize I deserved the love of a good man."

Her words pin me to my seat. I need to receive this message gracefully, but it's so hard not to jump in and remind Bella exactly how much she's given me, too.

"I am just a few months from earning my degree even though I don't have a clue where it might lead. You've taught me that's okay and that I need to put my best foot forward in everything I do."

It's true. She'd wanted to chuck it all more than once. I may have pointed out the distinction between flunking out and leaving on her own terms. If that gave her the courage to dig in, so be it.

"You've completely changed the dynamic with my parents." She tears up, and I hook my foot around her ankle and hold her close to me. "Not by feeding my fantasy that I could change them, but by helping me change how I responded. That freed me, Edward, and now I have a real relationship with them—not perfect, but honest."

The only response I can manage is a kiss. Her lips taste warm and earthy, with the velvety tang of wine, garlic, and our salty tears mingling with the other flavors. I pull away because she needs to be told right this second how much I love her.

"And for the record, Bella, you're pretty damn amazing, too, in ways only I am privy to." I didn't mean that to come out dirty, but she gives me the woo-woo eyebrows, and we share a soft chuckle.

"So, is that a yes?" she asks.

A sigh escapes me. "You've certainly made your case"—Bella's eyes widen—" _but_ artistically, I don't know how this can work. The pictures of you would stick out like poppies in a dandelion patch."

"As you said before, it's all about context."

"Exactly."

"Which is why I think we should try again in your studio."

"Oh," is what comes out of my mouth, but what happens inside me feels like a pack of dynamite blasting apart a boulder guarding the mouth of a cave.

Boundaries are important. Boundaries protect the peace between two elements better kept apart. I created this particular boundary for a good, sensible reason: to keep the lust for my girlfriend from muddling my professional, compassionate regard for my clients. I cannot afford to be confused in my studio.

I gulp down the rest of my wine as if it were water and consider refilling my glass.

"You're freaking out, aren't you?"

"Maybe a little."

"Edward," she starts, her voice dipping into _approach-the-wild-animal-carefully_ register, "don't you think we've come far enough in our relationship to open that door and try again?"

"This doesn't have anything to do with our relationship. It's about my work."

"Then why do I feel like Belle when the Beast tells her the West Wing is forbidden?"

The aftershock is worse than the blast. "You do?"

She gapes at me, possibly more surprised than I am. "Of course. Have I ever cut you off from a part of my life that was important to me?"

I could rack my brain from now till next week, and I would never find such a case. Bella's openness is one of the qualities I admire most. "I'm sorry, Bella. I had no idea you felt that way. I guess I can be pretty thick sometimes."

She makes a show of clamping her lips together.

"Okay, I get it."

My girl's just shared something pretty shitty about me, something she's been holding onto for more than two years. My glass definitely needs refilling now, and so does hers. We hold each other's gaze as we both take slow, thoughtful sips. I'm sure Disney manages a happy ending, but I have no clue how the Beast redeems himself.

"How can I make this right?"

Bella ventures gently as is her way. "Do you think you might be able to trust me?"

"I've always trusted you! It's myself I don't trust."

"We're in a different place now," she says. "It's not about getting my clothes off for the first time."

"No, but it's still a thrill every time." That earns me an eye roll, but at least she smiles.

"I certainly don't want to push you if you're not comfortable with the idea. I just thought it might be a way to bring me into your project since you mentioned you wanted to . . ."

"Yes, I do." I'm even surer of it now.

"Well, I'm game. Just so you know."

I pinch the stem of the goblet between my fingers and set it twirling. Waves of wine slosh against the glass. _A tempest in a teapot_. What happens if I let it out? What happens if I don't?

"You know what, Bella?" I slide the wine glass out of the way and slap my palms on the table. "Yes! Let's do this!"

A smile starts across her mouth, but she doesn't let it finish. "Are you sure that's not the wine talking?"

"I'm sure. I want you in my show."

"And you're not worried about your work?"

What worries me—terrifies me, even—is that I had no clue I'd hurt Bella and that she didn't feel comfortable telling me. If my work suffers because of my relationship with Bella, so be it; the opposite would be unbearable.

"We can do this. I trust us."

She leans in to kiss me. "Worst-case scenario, we'll have an interesting date."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Did Edward do the right thing letting that tempest out of the teapot? Anyone care to venture a guess on how their session will go?

Many thanks to **The Lemonade Stand** for their rec this week! And as always, thank you to my team, **Patrizia** , **Ladyeire** , and **Chayasara** , and to you lovely readers who let me know what's on your mind! MWAH!  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	6. Pre-Shoot Purge

**6 PRE-SHOOT PURGE**

Nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day" quite like fucking each other's brains out. As Bella accurately predicted, our photo-shoot date has already proven "interesting," and according to the rules we drew up over too many glasses of chianti last week, there's not a camera in sight.

"We agreed to purge your system of all desire before we go down to the studio." Bella's delivery is sober, but it's hard to take her too seriously while she's toweling my load from between her legs. It's oddly arousing.

"I'm starting to wonder if that's even possible."

If our spirited reverse-cowboy—following the intense, drawn-out sixty-nine—didn't do the trick, I cannot imagine what will. She tosses the towel onto my belly, and we both watch in amazement as my well-worked dick twitches with renewed life.

"Yep, there's definitely some meat left on that bone." Bella's tone more evokes a duty-bound soldier than a starry-eyed lover, but who could blame her at this point?

"You wake it, you take it."

A laugh tumbles out of her. "Classy!"

"Hey, you're the one who insisted on this 'insurance fuck.'"

"I didn't hear you complaining when I floated the theory."

"Are you kidding? Why would I complain about an extra pop? In fact, when we're all through here, I plan to send a bouquet to your Risk Management professor—if I'm still alive, that is."

" _Ahh_. Say it with flowers. Now you sound like you again."

"You'll have to forgive me if I occasionally forget my manners in the throes of passion."

"Forgive you? That's the best part!"

My chuckle dies on my lips as Bella flings the towel away and reaches for the meat on my bone. Her touch does it for me every damn time. _Oh,_ she knows exactly how to play me…

 _Teasing and tightening her grip and teasing again_ , which makes me groan and pant and beg and growl.

 _Rolling my balls in the palm of her hand like she's shooting dice_ , which muddles my mind and makes me shout nasty shit.

 _Working me up and down through the valley of those gorgeous, perfect hooters_ , which makes me stiff as a lamppost and ready to burst.

She kisses a trail toward my chest, dipping her tongue into my belly button just to torture me that much more. When she lifts her head, I catch that evil glint in her eye—the one I fucking love. That look that says, _I own you, Edward Cullen, and we both know it._

The hair Bella pushes off her face started out shiny and smooth this morning. Now, it's a wild snarl, sticking up in a million directions—probably the way mine looks most of the time—but somehow, it's sexy as hell on her. If we hadn't agreed to keep the camera out of our bedroom this morning, I would be all over this. I ponder whether she'll leave it untamed for our shoot, but there's no more room in my brain for advanced mental functions when Bella straddles my hips and starts rocking against my pubic bone.

I reach down and find her clit with my thumb. We are not leaving this bedroom until Bella is as thoroughly drained as I am. Just one of her famous, needy glances downstairs—the one I'm staring at right now, for instance—could bring the whole photo shoot to a standstill.

She doesn't seem to mind going with the program, riding my hand, rocking to the rhythm of some song only she can hear.

Her eyes drift shut. Her mouth drops open . . .

 _Come on, baby._

She moans . . .

 _Fall apart for me._

Without warning, she grabs my wrist and draws my hand into her mouth, making a big show of licking her own juices off my thumb.

" _Damn_ , Bella!"

Those big, brown eyes of hers open wide. She plays it up, slathering my thumb with her tongue, sliding her lips up and down the length like she's got my dick in her mouth. She drops forward and closes her lips over my nipple.

"Jesus!" My hips try to fly off the bed. She's got me pinned.

Lips and teeth and tongue. My nipples can't keep up. _Slurp. Nibble. Flick._ She's relentless. Relentless!

I glide my hands to her luscious ass. An adorable squeak pops out of her mouth. With a mighty effort, I pull up into a sitting position with Bella in my lap.

Startled, she clasps her hands behind my neck. Her mouth is inches from mine. That little show she put on is lodged in my brain, maybe forever. I steal a taste of her pussy-flavored tongue, and it's sweeter than any dessert I've ever tasted—which is saying a lot.

I could kiss Bella forever, even if she didn't taste like sex, but honestly, I have more urgent needs. I don't know how I am still so damn horny after our wild, sweaty ride, but my engine is revved, and it's go-time.

Rising onto my knees, I spill Bella out of my lap. She giggles, scrambling to untangle her limbs like a newborn colt finding his legs. Before she has a chance to remember what goes where, I close in behind her, lift her onto hands and knees, and tug her hips toward me.

 _Yessss._

Bella drops forward onto her elbows and wags her tail for me. " _Mmmm_ , I like the way you think, baby."

I can't honestly claim to have put much thought into getting inside her. I only got as far as, _God, I love this ass._ It's a ridiculously fine ass. I should know; I've studied the human form. _Ahem—_ artist, here.

Young and firm with a little jiggle to it, because where's the fun if it doesn't move? Buck naked, obviously, preferably with my dick nestled just like this, between the two soft, round cheeks.

I tease at her entrance, warm-up strokes to get her slick and ready. She reaches between her legs to guide me . . . and I'm home.

I pulse forward gently in case she's saddle sore, but Bella's having none of that. She grabs me by the balls and urges me forward, even as she presses her ass into my pelvis. Once again, she unhinges me—from my inhibitions, from my concern about her comfort, and most definitely, from my manners.

Leaving only sensations.

Her cheeks _slap, slap, slapping_ against my thighs. The delicious friction of her tight walls pulling me inside, drawing away. _Swallow, release_. The feral cries leaving our lips. The raw, primitive violence of two bodies slamming together. Deep, penetrating thrusts, urged on by mounting pressure from within and without.

The brink of understanding, gratitude, anticipation, release . . .

Ecstasy.

Relief.

I flop sideways onto the mattress, dragging Bella with me. I have exactly enough energy to drop a single kiss between her shoulder blades and tell her I love her.

I wake to the sound of the shower. My eyelids are heavy. My body is a lead weight, a blissed-out lead weight.

The hair dryer wakes me this time. My client is in there, preparing for her shoot. I need to do the same.

It's a wonder I can still walk. I meet Bella's gaze in the mirror as I saunter to the toilet. She smiles brightly, completely refreshed. _Youth_. I happen to catch my reflection—holy shit, my smile!

I hop in the shower, keeping one eye on Bella through the glass door. No wonder she hates getting her hair wet. The blow-dry process is long and exhausting, and Bella's not one for fussing with her looks, not that there's much to improve on anyway.

 _Okay, let's not dwell on the girl in the towel and undo everything, shall we?_

On my way out of the bathroom, I give her a platonic wave and close the door behind me. _We can do this_.

I dress for work in my standard jeans and a black T-shirt. I need to be able to move around comfortably and blend into the background. I'll change into Valentine's-Day-boyfriend attire later.

Bella and I have already agreed she'll wear a robe downstairs, and we'll work with sheeting. Skipping the act of undressing in the studio seems like the safest approach.

She joins me at the kitchen counter about ten minutes later. Her hair is restored to its silky, orderly state. She's applied a light layer of makeup to her eyes and something shiny to her lips. The combined effect takes my breath away.

"You look beautiful."

"Never knew you had a thing for terrycloth," she says.

 _I have a thing for you,_ I'd tell her any other moment but this one. "Can I get you a snack before we head down? Want half of my pear?"

"No, thanks. The camera adds ten pounds, right?"

"Not my camera." The more I regard myself as the pro that I am, the better our chances for success in the studio.

She eases the knot in her belt and tugs it tighter. "I'm good." And now, I'm on edge.

"Let me at least get you some water."

I've got one arm in the fridge when she says, "Got any scotch to go with that?"

 _Okay, wow._ An anxious client is nothing new; I just wasn't expecting this from Bella.

"How about we save the hard liquor for later?"

I hand her the water, and she takes the bottle from me as if it were a life preserver. "Promise?"

"Absolutely. We can get totally shit-faced afterwards if you want."

"Deal."

Staying in professional mode is a challenge when all I want to do is wrap my arms around her. I settle for holding her hand. "You're gonna do great, Bella."

"I have no idea why I'm so nervous. You've seen me naked a thousand times."

It would only confirm her fears to hear that studio-naked is different from boyfriend-naked. "It's completely normal to get the jitters. You'll be fine once we get started."

She nods, takes a deep breath, blows it out, and nods again. _Oh boy._

"Bella, do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"Good. Then all you need to do is follow my lead. The rest is a piece of cake . . . and you know I never joke about cake."

She rolls her eyes hard, but she smiles, too. "Okay, okay. No more talking."

 _Right._

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Happy Valentine's Day to them!


	7. Shooting Bella

**7 SHOOTING BELLA**

It's not exactly routine to bring a client down the inside staircase, but what am I gonna do, make Bella go outside in her bathrobe? We descend the stairs, side by side but lost in our separate thoughts. Confidence settles around my shoulders as surely as if I pulled on my own robe at the top of the stairs—or as Bella loves to tease, my superhero cape.

Kidding aside, this studio is my kingdom. The architecture of the space reflects my vision of the creative process. I pride myself on my mastery of the technical aspects of the craft. I enter the space with the combination of years of training and experience, instinct, and heart that I alone possess. And yet . . .

 _And yet._

Every session is its own organic being, a product of two people in relation to each other, at a given moment in time and physical and emotional space. I cannot control everything that happens inside these walls, nor would that be desirable. The artist cannot know what he is about to discover.

It is precisely the spark that lives outside the knowable that makes each encounter unique. The scariest is almost always the most compelling.

At the bottom of the stairs, Bella pauses. Our last visit here together still rattles around in these walls like a restless ghost. Hopefully, not for long.

I open the door to the staging area and usher Bella inside with a hand at her lower back. She pulls in a deep breath, a weighty balloon that fills against my palm. I'm grateful I had the foresight to dim the lights when I organized the room this morning—before our drain-the-desire marathon.

We've discussed the general plan. Demystifying the process tends to lead to a more relaxed subject. This shoot will follow the general trend of all my professional sessions—from darkness to light, head shots to full-body, from surface to soul. Whatever level of cloaking Bella needs or doesn't need is fine with me. We've agreed not to inhibit the artistic flow with worries about what will and will not be displayed publicly. We'll make those decisions together at a later date.

At this point, I don't think she has any doubt about my command of the craft. What will help Bella most is seeing that I am in command of my emotions.

"You can make yourself comfortable while I run through the equipment checks. There's a hook on the door for your robe, and you'll find the draping folded up on the stool."

She gives me an uncharacteristically shy smile, and I turn my back before her robe comes off. Most likely, Bella knows I've already checked my equipment multiple times, but I move to the shelves on the opposite wall and fiddle with my 35mm lens until the rustling of the sheets dies down. She's settled.

Bella tracks me with wide eyes as I approach, camera in hand. It's not easy to set aside my feelings for my beautiful model, but at least my lust is at bay.

"How's the temperature?"

"It's a little nipply in here," she says with a laugh that sounds like it's trying too hard.

"It'll warm up as we go. Better to keep you a little chilly than have you sweating." I'm not too worried about the goosebumps—they'll disappear when her nerves settle down.

"Right. We don't need my hair to frizz up."

"Are you okay if I take some test shots for brightness while we talk?"

She runs a hand down the silk fabric draped over her shoulder. "Did I do okay with this? I feel like I'm wearing a tablecloth."

Truth be told, it's not the most artful display—sort of a cross between a toga and a sumo wrestler's belt—but that's not what matters right now. "As long as you're comfortable, it's fine."

I lift the camera to my face and break the ice with a series of headshots. She sits up taller on the stool.

"Am I supposed to look into the camera?"

"You can look anywhere you like. There really aren't any rules."

She tries out a few self-conscious smiles. They all do at first. It's time to dig in.

"Can you tell me three things you love about your job?"

Her gaze snaps back to meet the lens. "Oh, okay. Let's see… I love working with Rose, and Emmett is a great boss. Is that one or two?"

"Let's call that one."

"All right. Two: I love tending bar."

"And why is that?" As we chat, I ease away from her to catch some full-body shots.

"I get to bring people food and alcohol. It generally makes them happy. That's a pretty decent way to get through the workday."

I have to chuckle. "I see your point. And number three?"

"I like the tips," she says with a certain finality.

"Because . . .?"

She cocks her head. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Humor me."

Confusion clouds her expression. _Click._ This could go one of two ways. Luckily, she chooses to trust me. Her gaze flutters toward the ceiling, exposing her elegant neck to the camera. _Click-click._

"I guess," she starts, leveling her focus at my head again, "I like the money because it gives me my independence."

I capture the proud set of her shoulders with my lens.

"And what did a younger Bella, bursting with this independent spirit, look like growing up?"

Her eyes shift away from the whirring camera. After a few seconds of reflection, she answers almost with a whisper. "I wasn't like this growing up."

I stop, lower my camera, and invite her to say more by listening with my whole being.

"I was a bit of a spoiled brat. I wouldn't say I didn't appreciate what was given to me, but I took from my parents without feeling the need to contribute—which wasn't right, but it also wasn't fair for them to lord it over me later."

I have to actually push my feet against the floor to resist the urge to wrap Bella in my arms. This is her story, and I am here to be an empathic observer, not her lover. I lift the camera and record her story with my shutter finger.

"Can you pinpoint a time when everything changed, or was it a gradual process?"

She sighs. Sadness grips the corners of her mouth and holds them down, but her frown won't stick around long. I capture the fleeting moment of melancholy as she moves through the memory.

"The day I got kicked out of USF should have been the turning point. Unfortunately, I burned through all my savings before I hit rock bottom. I was on the verge of crawling back to my parents. That's when I realized exactly how desperate I was not to be at anyone's mercy, even my parents. That felt like the ultimate failure."

I don't rush her past this pivotal moment. Bella's strong enough to dwell in the discomfort, and we both know this story has a happy ending. Even as I shoot the images of her thoughtful stillness, I can tell they will be stunning. Shivers roll down my back.

"That's when I saw Mrs. Cope's ad. At the time, I figured it would be a short-term situation, just long enough to get me back on my feet, put away enough cash to—honestly, I had no clue what would come next—just to keep me out of my parents' house, I guess. I had a general idea that bartending wasn't my ultimate career, but the idea of going back to school . . ." Her body ripples with a hard shudder.

"But you did end up going back, after all."

"Yes. It wasn't an easy choice for me, given my track record."

With my camera as a curtain for my emotions, I can observe, record, and even prompt Bella without becoming a player in the scene. "And you struggled . . ."

"In the beginning, yes. Especially after I took the job at Hooters. The subject matter would have been challenging enough, but then, there just weren't enough hours in the day"—she pegs me with her gaze—"and then I met this man, and bye-bye, free time!"

This juicy worm she's just dangled is tempting as hell, but I'm not ready to take the bait.

"You mentioned that you struggled 'in the beginning.' Can you say more about that?"

"Well, either I got smarter or my classes got easier." Her grin comes out to play, coaxing mine as well.

"So those are the only two options?" I ask.

We've discussed this before. In fact, we discuss this almost every time her grades come out. I don't buy her theory that the classes got easier. How could "advanced" anything be less rigorous than "intro"?

Bella re-crosses her legs and leans forward as if she wants to tell me—or maybe the camera—a secret. Her joined hands slide down her thigh until they catch on her knee. "If you were to ask my _boyfriend,_ I think he'd say I got smarter about being a student."

There she goes again, waving that bait. _Here, fishy, fishy._

"He sounds like a very smart guy."

She tosses her head back and laughs out loud. I catch it all—the pure, spontaneous joy expressed in every muscle of her upper body. She's nothing short of spectacular.

"Maybe he should be taking my classes for me."

"You're doing just fine, Miss Dean's List." I catch the glint of pride that crosses her face before she swiftly changes the subject.

"Actually, if you want to know the truth, my butt's not all that fine. I'm getting a little sore. Do you mind if I stretch for a sec?"

"Go for it." I help Bella off the stool. The sheeting falls away, and neither of us reacts.

Raising her arms over her head, she lets out a long, luxurious yawn. "Don't take it personally," she says with a lilt. "I'm not that great at sitting still." She opens her stance and stretches to one side, then the other.

"You don't have to sit still, you know. Why don't we work with some movement?"

"We can do that?"

"Sure. We're not going to have you playing football or anything, but you can certainly walk around or dance or try out one of the other sets, if you like."

She glances over my shoulder at the raised platform covered in white sheeting. "Hmm . . . that bed looks awfully inviting."

"You're not planning to fall asleep on me, are you?"

"Who said anything about sleep? I want the glamour shot treatment. You know, the whole sultry, come-hither situation?"

She's walking the tightrope again. This is Bella's safe place. Seduction is easy for her. Nudity is easy. Flirting is a language she uses to hold her customers at arm's length. I'm sure she isn't doing it on purpose, but Bella has to have noticed over the years that her body is a damn fine distraction. It certainly does the trick for me ninety-nine times out of a hundred.

But this is that hundredth time. Bella can come hither all she wants. She is not going to keep me or my camera from finding what lies below the surface.

"Okay, go, be sultry, as long as you behave yourself." A little reminder of our ground rules never hurts.

"You're no fun."

I love her like this—relaxed, playful, confident. I can't wait to start taking more pictures of this Bella.

"I'd like to bring in some soft lighting. Is that okay?"

"Does this mean I am finally going to see the infamous umbrellas at work?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm going for a calmer mood here."

"Oh well, another time, then," she says. "Do you mind if we ditch the sheet? I keep worrying what's peeking out, and I think it would just be easier without it."

"That's fine." The most important thing right now is not to stifle her free spirit. Using shadows and angles, I can keep everything tasteful . . . and there's always the crop tool.

"How about some music?" I ask.

"That would be great. Got any highly empowered female vocalists?"

She's yanking my chain, but I don't mind. Female vocalists I've got. "Is Joni Mitchell empowered enough for you?"

"Please tell me you have 'Sex Kills.'"

I delight Bella with the _what-am-I-gonna-do-with-you_ headshake she's been trying to provoke all afternoon. "How about you have a drink—of _water_ —and let's get back to work."

Bella makes a show of wiping her brow. "It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it."

Just for that, I put on "I Had a King," leaving Bella to ponder the lyrics while I switch out my camera for the 5D outfitted with zoom lens and flash. She's eyeing the platform when I turn around.

"Just so you are aware, that's not a real mattress under the sheets. A ladylike mount might be in order."

A very cute giggle bursts from her mouth. "Should I ride side saddle?"

"My dear, I leave that entirely up to you."

She takes my hand, and I ease her onto the platform, which is about hip-height for starters. The lift adjusts, providing me with options to alter my perspective. Every angle has its advantages. I like it here, for now, my subject at the same level as my camera—and eventually, the viewer. This particular arrangement affords me a certain intimacy I lose if I'm too far above or below my subject.

Bella rolls onto her belly and stretches out along the middle of the makeshift bed. She rests her chin in her hands, tracking me with a slow turn of her head as I make my way around the platform. Here's where being a professional is absolutely critical—this woman is, quite literally, a photographer's wet dream.

Bella doesn't have a bad side, but I certainly have my favorite spots. I am duty-bound to make sure my camera finds each and every one: the gentle swell of a hip rounding the bend and becoming a firm ass cheek; the graceful hollow of a belly she doesn't have to work at; the luscious mound of a breast before it presses its secrets into the sheets.

She raises her crossed ankles. Her lower legs pulse to the music as she hums along with Joni. If she had a _Seventeen_ magazine and a wad of gum, Bella might be any teenager anywhere—if not for the eyes.

I meet her around front again, those warm, brown eyes boring into the lens. I wouldn't say Bella's an "old soul," but she carries the wisdom earned by picking oneself up by the bootstraps.

"You're doing great, Bella."

I capture her smile as it widens. "I'm really not doing anything."

"True."

She pops her head up. "Hey!"

"What? I was just agreeing with you." I lower the camera so my sincerity has a clear path to her eyeballs.

"You're lucky you're cute, mister," she says. I guess my "sincere expression" needs a little more work.

"Perhaps we should pick up our conversation where we left off?"

"At you telling me I'm doing great?"

She's lucky she's cute, too, because Bella can be a bit of the devil when she wants.

"I was about to ask if there's anything you would change." _There._ That ought to bring her head back to the shoot.

She rolls onto her side, props her head up with one hand, and rests the other hand along the curve of her hip. A very delicious pose, showcasing Bella's long, lean lines and curves. I capture the wide shot, then zoom in for the thoughtful stare, reflecting the depth beneath the surface.

"If you'd have asked me four years ago, I would've said I wanted to change everything. Now? I wouldn't change anything that led me here."

Capturing every nuance with my camera requires my full attention, but it's not easy to remain detached when I know Bella is talking about us, in large part.

"What do you see as the biggest challenge ahead of you?"

"Definitely this marketing project," she says. "It's a culmination of everything we've learned over the last three years, and our recommendation might make or break the Orlovs."

I'd be terrified, too. I'm confident Bella will find the answers, but I'm not going to throw platitudes at her. Silence serves us both better, especially when it turns out she hasn't shared the worst of it.

"Have I told you about the presentation at the end of the semester?"

"Not in any detail."

Bella is not a talker, and she especially dislikes talking about anything that makes her anxious. She sighs, her pretty lips flattening into a tight line. The music changes. Carole King's "Natural Woman" kicks in. She pushes up into a sitting position, draws her knees to her chest, and wraps her arms tightly around the fetal ball she's become.

In every successful session, there is a hinge, a point where the subject encounters a difficult truth. This moment rarely occurs at the beginning of the shoot. Even Bella, whose trust in me is extraordinary, needed time to warm to the situation. These junctures strike me as visceral sensations—a tingle at the back of my neck, a thump in my chest, a chill down my spine—often before either of us is consciously aware that something important is about to happen.

I'm not sure where Bella is heading with this, but her body language is a dead giveaway. She's opened a door that feels dangerous to her, and I hold my breath as she steps through it.

"A quarter of our cohort, fifty students, will hear each case over the course of a week. We have exactly fifteen minutes to present the facts, our recommendation, pros and cons, and answer questions. And of course, the Orlovs will be in the audience as well. How's that for a challenge?"

"I'd say that qualifies."

I need this shot, the proverbial "before" picture, but I want her partially hidden. A quick swivel of the flash sends the burst of light toward the dark screen beside us, which illuminates the tight knot of Bella's hands and knees and casts the rest of her body in shadow. I sneak a quick peek at the display.

 _Score!_

"And you wanna know the really weird part?" she asks.

 _You know I do._ I brace myself for the photo opportunity sure to follow.

Her chin rises as if I'd pulled a string at the top of her head. She swallows heavily. Whatever Bella is about to say is something she has not shared with me before; I'm certain of that. Waiting for her to continue is a hard, scary moment for both of us. _Click, click, click._

 _Tell me, baby._

"If it were just me, I'd get through it somehow. I mean, who knows how good it would be, but I'd do my best." Another swallow. _Click, click, click._ "But I have to rely on this other person to pull his weight. I can't do the work of two people. What if he flakes on me or turns out to be some kind of jerk?"

My heart melts at the sight of her quivering chin. I can't guarantee that her partner is going to be a stand-up guy. So far, Riley seems capable enough and flexible about organizing his schedule around Bella's crazy Hooters hours. But this isn't about Riley at all; this is about Bella.

I'm careful to keep the camera between us, to maintain the objective layer so I can help her through this. I zoom in on her face and trust my experience to feed me the right words.

"It must be challenging for someone who has worked as hard as you have for your independence to leave your fate in someone else's hands."

Her eyes flutter closed. _Blink, blink_.

 _Click, click, click_.

"Yes," she says, barely louder than the song playing around us, "but I'm getting better at it, don't you think?"

 _Fuck!_ We're not talking about Riley or school at all.

"I do, baby. I think you're amazing."

So much for professional distance. I kick off my loafers and hop onto the platform. Bella cranes her neck, following the lens until I am standing right next to her, shooting from above _._

She opens like a flower in the rising sun . . . arms unfurling, reaching out behind her and resting on her palms . . . legs unfolding, stretching luxuriously to their full length . . . head tipped back in perfect surrender— _to me_.

And there it is: my "after" picture, my beautiful girl in her triumph. A photo I could not take of any other woman but the one who has gifted me, time and again, her most hard-won prize.

My artistic inclination fights—and happily, wins—a tough battle against my very human impulse to consume great quantities of this image. Time slows down for me. Instinct kicks in. _Zoom. Focus. Click._

 _God, what a rush!_

Even on my three-inch display, the image is stunning. I'm already itching to see it on my monitor, and better yet, on that gallery wall. But more importantly, I need my girl, like, yesterday.

"Bella, one last question before we wrap up."

"Okay." She sends up the drowsy smile of one who just woke from a long nap.

"What are you most proud of?" It's a lay-up, sure to end the session on a positive note.

"That's easy," she says. "Holding on to you."

 _That's it. I'm done being official._

One last close-up of her upside-down grin, and I set the camera down on the platform. I sink to my knees, then scoot behind her, nestling her naked body between my legs. If I didn't have jeans on right now . . .

A sweet sigh escapes her as her head drops back onto my shoulder. If I didn't have a shirt on right now…

"Holding on to me? That's your answer?"

She places her hand on my cheek and strokes her thumb along my jaw. "It's not that hard to get a man's attention. _Keeping it_ for over two years, especially when that man is such an amazing catch, is a whole different story."

"Oh, Bella, if you only knew . . ."

"Knew what?"

"You amaze me every day in a brand-new way. Trust me, you have my complete attention."

She's quiet. Her hand finds mine resting in her lap, and she weaves our fingers together.

"Edward?"

"Hmm?"

"I think we better go upstairs and celebrate Valentine's Day right now, and . . . leave your cameras here."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hope you enjoyed being a fly on the studio wall! I have to admit, I really wasn't sure how their session would go until I wrote it. To quote Edward, "God, what a rush!" Writing is fun, yo!

 _Major_ gratitude to Patrizia for spending hours (?!) online with me, schooling my thick head about lenses and umbrellas and screens and lighting—oh, and let's not forget the neck-strap pros and cons! And always, always Sue, for helping me arrange the words into pretty pictures that hopefully say what I see in my head.  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	8. Dinner With Swans

**8 DINNER WITH SWANS**

"You're getting pretty fidgety over there."

"What?" I follow Bella's gaze to my steering wheel, where my manic thumb-tapping could rival the Ohio State drumline. "Oh, sorry. I didn't realize."

"Are you okay?"

"Yep, fine. We brought the snapdragons, right?" I crane my neck around far enough to catch the edge of the cellophane.

"Yes. Snapdragons for Mom and the _manteen_ for Dad." Bella still can't say the word without cracking a smile, and I still can't watch my girl smile and not crack one of my own. "I don't know where the hell you found that thing, but Dad's gonna love it."

"I just googled 'great gifts for the fisherman,' and when I saw that moustache, I knew I had to get it for him."

She reaches over and stills my thumbs, which are at it again, apparently. "Edward, you know you can do no wrong with my parents. You're the 'beacon of responsibility who set Bella's life on a respectable course' . . ."

Hearing Charlie's words come out of Bella's mouth unsettles me further. Something tells me once Charlie learns about the nudes, he's going to seriously reconsider my beaconhood.

"Speaking of respectable, I should never have let you talk me into having sex before we left the house, young lady."

"Excuse me? I talked you into it?"

"You convinced me your father would assume we had, even if we hadn't, so we might as well, and then we did!"

"Seemed logical at the time." She shrugs, utterly unapologetic.

"And now I feel like the guy on his way to the weigh-in after binging on chocolate cake the night before . . . excuse me, the _hour_ before."

"Hey! How do you think I feel on Meatloaf Monday?"

"That's different."

"Please tell me you are not about to pull some outdated gender BS on me."

"You wound me, woman. I just meant that my mother loved you from the second she met you. I've had to worm my way into your parents' hearts."

"Please. You had my mom eating out of your hand after five minutes."

"Renee, maybe. But Charlie . . ." I can't think about those early visits without shuddering—me running interference between Bella and her mom; Charlie watching me like a damn hawk and shooting daggers at me anytime I touched his little girl. "I worked hard to gain his trust. Do you have any idea how many fishing trips and bowling nights I've endured?"

"A lot," Bella says, finally offering up a little empathy.

"And scariest of all—that time he insisted on taking me to the shooting range. Do you know how it feels to stand next to your girlfriend's father while he's loading ammunition into his shotgun?"

"You're a trooper, baby." The gooey look in her eyes turns me to mush.

"You know I'd do anything for you, Bella."

"Yes, and so does my dad."

"Are you saying he has been torturing me for the last two years to test my love for you?"

"Not entirely. I'm sure he enjoys your company. But my dad has a lot of friends. He isn't desperate for a fishing companion. He just wants to know you better."

"To make sure I'm good enough for you."

"Edward, you are way too good for me."

"We are exactly good enough for each other."

"Which I am sure my father knows by now."

"He might know that in the abstract. Sitting across the table from the man who's . . . sticking it to your daughter on the regular is another story."

"Did you just say, 'On the regular'?"

"I think I might have."

"Damn, you're hot when you're being current."

"Thanks for trying to take my mind off the fact that I'm about to lose my balls."

Bella shrugs. "They had a good run."

I side-eye her. "You're totally, one hundred percent sure we have to tell them about my show, right?"

"With any luck, they'll be out of the country those four weeks."

"Oh! Good idea! Maybe I can slip them a pair of tickets to Italy or Timbuktu. Isn't their anniversary coming up?"

I know I'm truly fucked when Bella runs out of cute comebacks. She pats my hand, sighs, and fixes her gaze straight ahead.

 _Bye-bye, balls._

.

.

.

"Mmm, Renee, this steak is delicious."

"Oh, the grill is Charlie's department. That thing scares the living daylights out of me!"

Charlie's waiting for the redirect, and I don't disappoint. "Great job on the steak, Charlie."

His moustache twitches at the compliment. "It's all in the wrist."

I give him a hearty chuckle. "Just like casting."

"Exactly. And thank you for this beautiful cab." Charlie lifts his wine glass to the light and ogles the fresh pour.

One thing I've learned about dinner with the Swans—a good cabernet makes the evening go down smoother. This evening might need a whole damn barrel.

"Glad you like it. It's one of the bottles we brought back from Duckhorn last summer."

"Beautiful spot," Charlie says.

"Yes, we've been trying to get up there since our first visit to Napa."

Bella snickers. Well, of course she does. I have inadvertently opened the floodgates to all the decadent memories of the trip we privately refer to as "Our First [Time That Lasted a] Weekend in Napa." _Privately_ being key.

I turn to my right to give Bella my "hush-you" glare, but she remains laser-focused on stabbing the little carrot squares and peas. Apparently, Renee's fear of appliances does not extend to the freezer and microwave.

Fortunately, Renee changes the subject. "How's your project coming along, Bella?"

"Only nine weeks to go . . ."

"Well, that sounds like plenty of time," Renee says.

It baffles me, still, that Renee can miss all the cues her daughter is sending out. The sudden iron grip on her fork or the grimace would have been enough for anyone with average perceptive skills. But to completely fail to notice Bella's choice of words? I can't decide if Renee is one of the least insightful people I've ever met, or she honestly doesn't believe Bella's feelings matter. Either way, I feel for my girl.

Bella forces a smile in place before meeting her mother's gaze. "Yeah, should be fine."

 _It's not worth it,_ Bella would surely say if I pressed her on it later. _Why bother going into the details when Mom was just being polite to ask? You think she really cares about consumer surveys and earnings forecasts and market valuations?_

I honestly don't know, but neither does Bella because she stopped trying long ago. Oh, I fully understand why—you can't get your hand bitten off if you don't put it near the lion's mouth—and I'm not saying she's wrong. At least we visit on a somewhat regular basis. Discourse is civil. That's an improvement.

Still, I see the toll it takes on Bella to actively maintain emotional distance from her parents. It hurts me to sit on the sidelines when it would cost me nothing to offer the morsels that Bella is unwilling to share. And _maybe_ , Renee and Charlie—but especially Renee—would have a little more respect for what Bella has on her plate.

But that is not my place. It's hard enough to get Bella to stand under my umbrella in the rain. Despite her praise for my superhero skills, Bella hates the damsel-in-distress role, and I won't be the man to ask her to play it.

What I can do is scoot my chair closer and put my arm around her shoulders. _I get you, even if she doesn't._ And I can change the subject like nobody's business.

"Renee, is that homemade apple pie I smell?"

I am rewarded with a genuine smile from my girl. I shoot her a wink. _I love you, and I am right here._

 _._

 _._

 _._

"I guess you didn't like that pie at all."

I glance up from my fork—the perfect ratio of pie to ice cream, right down to the last bite—to acknowledge Charlie's wisecrack. "Nope, not in the least."

Renee seems to take a special pleasure in watching me polish off my last bite. "I don't know how you don't weigh 300 pounds."

"Good metabolism," I answer. The Swans don't need to know how I plan to work off my dessert.

"Metabolism, my foot," Renee says. "Those muscles don't come from sitting around, doing nothing."

"Mom!"

Charlie grins at his wife. "Darling, you said that out loud."

 _Oh, dear Lord._

Renee turns red as a beet. "I just meant, clearly, Edward works hard to stay fit. There's no reason to be modest about that."

"Thanks, Renee. Actually, I do try to hit the gym a few times a week . . . though I haven't been able to fit it into my schedule lately." _And here we go._

" _Ah_ , business must be good," Charlie says, sounding pleased in a fatherly kind of way.

He's always taken an oddly sweet sense of pride in my work even though he claims not to understand exactly "why any woman would pay some guy to take pictures of her without her clothes on," or how Bella doesn't seem to mind that I'm "looking at naked women all day."

Bella pats my knee under the table.

"Actually, I've been working on a show."

"Oh?" Renee leans forward. "As in, a _gallery_ show?"

"Yes, that's right."

Charlie's smile widens. "We finally get to see your work?" _Be careful what you wish for._

"Are we talking about the"—Renee's voice drops to a hush—" _nudes_?"

I bite the inside of my cheek to contain the laughter and the screams. "They're not all entirely nude, but yes."

"And these . . . what do you call the women who pose for you?"

Bella answers before I can. " _Models_?" Her tone is just this side of rude, but Renee, hot on the scent, barely notices.

"These models, they're okay with people looking at their naked pictures?"

"It's _art_ , Mom."

Did Bella just grossly oversimplify the complex emotions at play, the awkward conversations, the roller coaster of emotions for my clients deciding whether to safeguard their privacy or share their soul- and body-baring moments and possibly inspire others? Yes, of course she did. But what Bella also managed, quite elegantly, was appealing to her mother's highest sense of self. What kind of person doesn't appreciate art?

Charlie, who's been watching the whole scene unfold with greedy glee, claps his hands together. "Call it whatever you want. Count me in!" His enthusiasm is clearly not shared by his wife, who raises her eyebrows at his outburst. "I want to be supportive, of course," he adds.

"Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate that." I do, sort of, but he's also being kind of creepy.

Renee isn't so easily convinced. "Well, all I can say is, thank goodness Bella never modeled for you."

"Actually, Mom, I did." _Shit, meet fan._

"What you kids do in the privacy of your own home is your own business, of course—though we're not necessarily supportive of cohabitation, just so we're clear."

I sink lower in my chair, but the confrontation has the opposite effect on Bella. She sits ramrod straight in her chair, tensed for battle. Her dad beats her to it.

"Hello, Renee? It's 1952 calling. We'd like our morals back."

"Oh, excuse me," Renee fires back. "Now you're Mr. Hip, all of a sudden?"

"It's all relative. Am I right, Edward?" Charlie winks at me. I think my apple pie just came up.

I can't keep up with these people's ninja-level debate skills, but Bella jumps right in. "What Edward is trying to say is, I am going to be part of his show."

Yep, apple pie _and_ ice cream, in their proper ratio, fill the back of my throat. "Actually, Edward was trying really hard not to say that, but thanks, baby."

"You're _what_?" Charlie glares at his daughter, his smile nowhere to be seen.

"What's wrong, Charlie? Is that a little too 2019 for you?" _Wow_ , Renee's got game.

Charlie rounds on his wife. "Don't tell me you're in favor of this!"

"Absolutely not!"

"Then why are you fighting with me? We're on the same side!"

Bella bolts straight up out of her chair. "There are no sides! Nobody's asking for your approval." She draws a labored breath into her fury-wracked body and forces each word out through tightly clenched teeth. "This isn't your choice to make. It's mine. Mine and Edward's. We are two adults, capable of making our own decisions."

I jump to my feet beside her, not because Bella needs any help, but because I'm not gonna be the chicken shit sitting down while my girl fights the good fight.

"Here's what _you_ get to decide," Bella says, jabbing a finger toward her stunned parents across the table. "Will we come to the gallery opening and support our daughter and her outrageously talented boyfriend, or will we let our old-fashioned, misguided morals keep us from experiencing this important moment we'll never, _ever,_ have the chance to get back?"

By the end of this tirade, Bella is literally vibrating from head to toe. I have never seen her quite this wound up, and frankly, it scares me that she carries so much anger inside of her for two people she loves so much. But she's spoken her piece, and that's a good thing. She sinks into her chair, and I move behind her, placing my palms gently on her shoulders.

Renee crosses her arms over her chest, clearly wounded and defensive, but she doesn't lash out in anger as she might have a couple of years ago. Aside from the "misguided morals" remark, Bella didn't actually attack either of them personally—also an improvement. Renee and Charlie pass a long look between them, one of many over the years, I am sure. Bella hasn't been an easy child.

"You're right, Bella," Renee starts calmly. "This is your choice to make. I hope you understand, your father and I are just concerned for your well-being."

Bella's shoulders tense under my hands. "Because I am clearly incapable of taking care of myself?"

Her mother sighs, the corners of her mouth pulling into a frown that startles me in its resemblance to Bella's. "Because we've been around long enough to see the damage that can be caused by a reckless decision that seems . . . exciting at the time."

Oh, the epic condescension! It's all I can do to hold my tongue. Bella must sense my agitation because she reaches toward her shoulder and covers my hand with hers before letting her mother have it.

"It's _reckless_ to be a part of an important artistic statement?"

Renee's gaze shifts from Bella's face to mine, and quickly back again. Her expression is a map of anguish, and I fear she is not through inflicting pain on all of us.

"Don't get me wrong, Bella. I think it's really noble you want to support your boyfriend's project." Bella squeezes my hand—hard. "I'm just asking you to reconsider whether exposing your body to every Tom, Dick, and Harry is the wisest decision. I'm sure Edward has enough photos of his other . . . _models . . ._ to make a fine enough show, without sullying your reputation."

"Renee."

It takes her an extra beat to locate the voice that just said her name. To be fair, the barely-restrained rumble that just came out of my mouth sounds more like some horror movie demon, but I guess that's what happens when you push a man over the edge. Bella can defend herself, but she sure as shit doesn't have to stick up for me, not while I'm standing right here.

I choose each word with great care so Renee doesn't misconstrue my meaning. "After all the time you've known me, do you honestly believe . . . I could ever do anything . . . _anything . . ._ to harm Bella's reputation or take advantage of her in any way . . . for _any_ purpose, but _especially_ to increase my own status?"

Renee stares back, shell-shocked. Charlie jumps in to rescue her, to rescue all of us. "Of course we don't, Edward. If either of us believed such a thing about you, you wouldn't be standing in our home right now."

Renee has the good graces to look down at her lap, ashamed. Tears pool in her eyes. She blinks them away as she lifts her gaze to Bella. "Do you really want us to come to this show?"

"Yes, _if_ you're coming to support us and not to be all judgy and critical." I might be the only one to hear the quiver in Bella's voice. I'm so proud of her for holding out the olive branch even when the stiff wind threatens to knock it out of her hand.

"Give us a little time to process?" Charlie says. I feel for him. Being the go-between for the two women he loves cannot be easy.

"Sure," I answer, relieved to hear my everyday voice again. "The show starts in two weeks. The opening is Friday the fifteenth at the Etcetera Gallery. Wine and cheese, friends and family, that sort of thing. I'll make sure your names are on the list."

"Very good," Charlie says with a nod.

Bella tips her head back to smile up at me. I cup her chin and bend down to kiss her. She breaks the kiss when Charlie clears his throat, after which, he utters the most terrifying words of the evening.

"Bella, why don't you help your mother in the kitchen?"

"Sure, Dad." She and Renee gather up the dessert dishes and march toward the kitchen. Bella gives me a long, last look before she disappears, as if memorizing a face she doesn't plan to see again.

"Charlie, I want to thank you for your support."

"Have a seat, Edward."

 _I wonder if he keeps that loaded shotgun lying around the house_.

I settle into the chair Bella just vacated. Charlie drills two holes in my skull with his stare. "Give it to me straight."

"Sir?"

"Man to man, here. Are we talking . . . buttocks?" He leans across the table and whispers, "Nipples?"

I can't say I blame him. "No, sir."

" _Worse_?" The man's pain is palpable. "I need to prepare myself."

"No. Nothing like that. You have my word."

"Oh, thank God." He slides back to his chair, a long sigh releasing all the way. "I'm going to hold you to that."

"As well you should."

"You're a good man, Edward." A grin spreads below his moustache. "You better go collect your girlfriend before she starts to worry about you."

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Of all the review comments I received at the end of _Old School,_ your most pervasive curiosity seemed to be how Bella's personal growth and her relationship with Edward would change the dynamic with her parents. What I enjoyed even more was pondering how Edward would behave when dropped into the Swan stew, and how the E/B dynamic would play out on the family stage. Thank you for nudging me to peek in on these characters again through a different lens (to borrow from Edward's head) and see how far they've all come and where they still ( _ahem_ ) need a little work.

Please know your reviews, PMs, and FB comments truly do motivate, inspire, and shape the future of my stories. I cherish the writer-reader relationship. Thank you all so much.  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	9. The Show

**9 THE SHOW**

As a young hot-shot, fresh out of art school, I fantasized about this night. I was certain I would love the validation— _A gallery wants to display my work!—_ and the adulation and, of course, the exposure. Yes, I wanted to be an artist, but fame and fortune wouldn't hurt, either. _Ah, youth._

I'm happy to report that cocky kid's priorities took a turn for higher ground. I understand my gifts and what sets me apart from the next guy with a camera. I've purposely spent the latter part of my career _out_ of the public eye, and that suits me fine. It's really not about me.

 _But damn_ , I could sure use a bit of that kid's pluck right about now.

My handkerchief is nearly soaked through, but I sweep it across my forehead for the third time since this soiree started. Only another . . . shit . . . one hundred and thirty-two minutes left to go.

Bella jiggles my other hand with hers. "Are you sure I can't get you a drink, babe? I'm sure the bartender won't mind if I slip behind the bar and mix you a tequila with a splash of soda and a twist of lime, just the way you like it."

"I appreciate the offer, but I don't think alcohol is a great idea. Besides, you're off duty tonight . . . for a change. Do you even remember what that feels like?"

"Barely," she says.

My poor Bella. Late afternoons, after the bakery closes, are the only time she and Riley can have any kind of productive conversation with the Orlovs. Emmett's been great about accommodating Bella's school commitments, but closing shifts are all she can work. Between running down the final details for this show and Bella's frantic pace, we've barely seen each other for more than a quick coffee since dinner at her folks'.

I get that this pull in opposite directions is temporary. That doesn't mean I have to like it. My stress largely ends in two hours, but the light at the end of Bella's tunnel is still almost two months away.

Even worse, there doesn't seem to be much I can do to help her through it. I don't know squat about marketing or high finance or acquisitions. I can't make the day longer so she can get more than four hours of sleep, and I can't bring more customers to the Orlovs' shop. Some superhero I am.

Yes, I can keep Shelly fixed for meals and company, so at least Bella doesn't have to feel guilty about that. I can send Bella a message here and there to remind her she's loved. I can hold an umbrella over her head when she's too tired to remember her own. So I do those things, and I'll keep right on doing them until we get to the other side of this . . . to the bright, shiny ring on my girl's finger.

"I'm really glad you're here," I tell her, though I'm pretty damn sure she already knows.

"I bet you say that to all your models."

My gaze follows Bella's to the animated conversation taking place in front of the nude of Victoria. It warms my heart to see the obvious connections among Emily and three of the other women whose photos are featured in the show. Nothing like a common purpose to bring people together. Bella, too, proudly joined the sisterhood of the empowered the moment Victoria welcomed her with open arms for the first time tonight.

"Yes, I'm glad they're here"—my confession earns a snigger from Bella—"but I am _really, really_ glad _you're_ here." Including Bella in the show feels right on every level.

"Are you kidding? Wild boars couldn't drag me away." For one terrible moment, I picture Bella being snapped up between the tusks of a particularly nasty, hairy old boar. Good thing I haven't eaten since breakfast.

"Could you not . . . do that to me right now, please?"

Bella giggles at my sour expression. "Oh, man, you are such a hot mess right now."

"Well, that's no good," Victoria says as she sidles up to our conversation. "I have someone very important I'd like you to meet."

"Go," Bella says. "I left Mrs. Cope at a high top with a glass of champagne and a plate of crab cakes fifteen minutes ago. No telling what kind of trouble she's gotten herself into." With a quick peck on the cheek, Bella skitters away.

"So, do you remember I told you I was going to invite Jonathan Darby?"

"From _The Chronicle_?"

"Yep, that's the one."

"Oh, Christ. Don't tell me he actually came." I reach for my hanky.

Victoria takes me by the elbow. "He came."

.

.

.

Jonathan Darby and I are just approaching the last photo in the exhibit when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I'd know Bella's touch through ten sports coats, but her shampoo alone would have been a dead giveaway. I also know she would never interrupt this conversation without good reason.

"Bella?"

"Please excuse the interruption." She flashes a charming smile at Jonathan that disappears before it reaches me. "There's a matter that needs your attention." I haven't a clue what's wrong, but her eyebrows are telling me to wrap this up.

"I'm so sorry to cut this short, Jonathan."

"Not at all. I've already monopolized enough of your time." He offers me a handshake and a warm smile. "I'm so glad Victoria invited me. It was a pleasure to see your work."

"Thank you so much. Please, enjoy the rest of your evening."

Bella tugs me toward the gallery entrance, where some sort of commotion is gaining momentum. What kind of rabble-rousers would bother with a photography exhibit? I'm hardly Mapplethorpe. I'm about to whip out my phone and dial 911 when a familiar voice rises out of the hubbub.

". . . my only son's exhibition!"

Oh, holy mother of . . .

" _Mom_?"

I poke my head into the vestibule, where I'm greeted by the unlikely sight of my mother and Raoul, locked together, halfway between sitting and standing, and what the hell are they doing . . . wrestling?

"What's going on out here?"

Mom peeks around Raoul's body, her angelic smile meeting what I'm sure is an expression of pure shock on my face. "Oh, hello, dear. We were just making our way inside."

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no . . . everything's fine," Mom says. Her voice is unnaturally high, presumably to meet the halo. The woman is up to no good.

Raoul turns around with an exasperated sigh and crosses his arms over his chest. "Your mother refuses to stay in her wheelchair."

"I won't be able to view the artwork at its proper angle if I'm sitting down."

 _Crap._ It's not about angles or art. It's about losing her independence and succumbing to the disease.

I crouch in front of her chair. My heart breaks a little more each time I have to be the reality police, but all it takes is one fall, one broken hip . . .

"Mom, we've talked about this. Your legs just aren't steady enough anymore. You know it's not safe."

"Oh, fi!" She flicks her hand as if she could dismiss by sheer willpower everything that's wrong. If anyone could, it would surely be my mother. Her hand quakes in midair between us, proving my point even though I don't want to be right. Her tremor's gotten so much worse since Christmas.

I pluck her shaky hand from the air, twine my fingers between hers, and rest our joined hands gently in her lap. I can't stand the defeat in her sad, blue eyes.

"Tell you what, Mom. I'll make you a deal. Let Raoul wheel you in the Esme-mobile over to my exhibit. We'll take a spin through the pictures. You pick your favorite, and we will hold you upright while you view the photo at the exact, optimal viewing angle. And after that, you promise to sit down again and enjoy yourself from the safety of your chair. What do you say?"

My mother perks up with a mischievous grin as she locates Bella behind me. "Tell me, dear, does my son pull this bossy crapola with you?"

Bella, bless her heart, steps right up to the plate. "Only when I'm being particularly hardheaded." _Is it any wonder why I fucking love this girl?_

"Touché," Mom says.

"Is that a yes, Mom?"

When she meets my gaze, there's a merry twinkle in her eye. "Throw in a glass of chardonnay, and you've got a deal."

Raoul lets out a soft moan. Mom's meds have gotten more complicated. I no longer have the luxury of pretending a glass of wine is innocuous.

"I'll defer to Raoul on this one."

Raoul's no dummy. He has already weighed his options, understands that losing this battle will win him the war. He shakes a stern finger at Mom. "One glass, no refills, and you use your mug."

"Deal." The small victory raises Mom's spirits along with my own. "And don't worry, son. I won't embarrass you. Nobody will be the wiser that I'm drinking alcohol out of my sippy cup. If I start slurring my words, just blame the Parkinson's."

"Good to know you've got it all figured out, Mom."

"I wasn't born yesterday, kiddo."

 _Indeed._

I can't help but chuckle to Bella as Raoul wheels Mom toward the bar. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if she orchestrated that whole scene just to get Raoul to agree to a glass of wine."

"She's a crafty one. But what a sweetheart."

I put my arm around Bella. "Speaking of sweethearts, thanks for the assist. I owe you one."

"Mmm," she answers, lowering her gaze to my lips. "I can't wait to cash in. I've never slept with a 'featured artist' before. Kinda hot."

She's got that come-hither look down to a science. I am toast. "Do you think it would be bad manners if I sneak out of my own show?"

Bella giggles. "Probably. What do we have, another hour to go?"

"Seventy-three minutes, but who's counting?"

Bella's smile falters _._ _Duh, Edward. Bella's_ counting.

Shouldn't her parents have arrived by now if they were going to show up at all? The tight grip on Bella's emotions slips, just for the briefest moment, before she fixes her game face again. She is working so hard not to burden me tonight with her own disappointment, the kindest thing I can do is to play my part. So I pull her a little closer, hold her a little tighter, love her a little harder… and pretend it doesn't kill me that this conflict, too, is bigger than my umbrella.

.

.

.

"It's a shame Seth's lacrosse team started practice this week," Mom says. "I know how much Alice wanted to be here for the opening."

"I get it. He's going out for varsity this year. That's a big deal."

"Yes, your sister is going to be a basket case until she gets that child into college. Thank goodness I never had to go through all that with you kids. I don't know how parents these days manage it all. Oh, Edward! I just love this one." Mom leans forward in her chair to get a closer look at the shot of Bree, lying on her side. "What a beautiful girl."

"She is." My gaze floats across the room, to where Bella and Bree are chatting with Mrs. Cope. "This is the woman I told you about, Mom. We're hoping she and her daughter will be able to move in with Shelly once Bella leaves."

Mom grabs my arm and pulls me within range of her excited whisper. "Are you getting close to asking?"

"Close- _er_. We've still got to get through Bella's project and graduation."

" _Whoa!_ "

The sound pulls my attention down the wall to where Raoul is standing, awe-struck, in front of the full-length shot of Bella lying on her stomach. Her head is in clear focus and the rest is strategically shadowed, but I can't say I love the way Raoul is staring at my girlfriend.

I grab Mom's chair and wheel her past the next two photos. "Edward! What are you doing? I was looking at those!"

"Sorry, Mom. We can come back to them if you like. I need to . . . um . . ." I can't even come up with an excuse Mom will buy. "Hey, man."

"Hey." Raoul grins without moving his eyeballs off my girl for even a second. Not for the first time, I kind of want to punch the guy. "This is quite the picture."

I can't miss my mother's "Oh my!" as she catches up with the conversation.

Raoul leans in, yanking my chain spectacularly. Shadowed or not, my girlfriend's breast is way too close to Raoul's beady eyes. "Does Bella model professionally?"

"Nope."

"Huh. She's a natural."

"Yep."

Is it not bad enough I have to endure the idea of this man giving my own mother a sponge bath? Now I have to watch him ogle a nude of Bella?

I give Mom's chair a friendly nudge forward. Raoul finally looks up. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"To be honest, a little."

"Hey, it's nothing I haven't seen before. I'm a nurse, remember?"

"You're also a man."

"Yeah, a _gay_ man."

"You're gay?"

"You didn't know?"

"How would I know?"

My mother's wheelchair starts shaking. Her head has dropped forward, and she's holding her belly.

I bend down to check if she's seizing. "Mom! Are you okay?"

She's quaking with laughter.

She sputters out a few words, "All this time . . ." but breaks up again.

I roll my eyes to the heavens. Raoul slaps me on the back. "Sorry, man. I really thought everyone knew."

"Um . . . Edward?"

 _My sweet Bella, not a moment too soon._

"Oh, thank God. Save me from th—" _Holy shit._

"Look who I found." The expression on Bella's face reminds me of that game we used to play as kids, where you pass your hand from your chin to the top of your head, and it appears you're pulling your mouth into a smile and your eyes big and wide. Like a clown without her makeup.

"Renee!" _Hug_. "Charlie!" _Handshake_. "Thank you so much for coming."

"What a nice turnout," Renee says, scanning the crowd as if afraid of being seen here by anyone she might know.

I have to give the woman credit for showing up. This is about the most uncomfortable I've ever seen Renee, but she came.

"Oh, look, dear! There's your daughter." Charlie points over my shoulder at the 36 x 24-inch portrait of Bella without her clothes on.

Raoul and I step out of Charlie's path, as anyone in his right mind would. My heart lodges in my throat as Renee moves to her husband's side, and the two silently examine the photo. I took. Of their naked daughter.

"Excuse me?" It's Mom, apparently finding her voice again after her laugh attack. "Did I hear you say this is your daughter?"

 _Well, fuck me_.

I'm sure it occurred on some plane of consciousness that my mother and the Swans might meet tonight, but for the life of me, I cannot recall having a single intelligent thought that survived the wild swirl of activity in preparation for the show.

Renee pivots to face the wheelchair. "Yes, but please don't judge her. The photographer is her boyfriend."

It's a train wreck happening in slow motion before our eyes, and all Bella and I can do is hold hands and pray for a swift death.

"Ah." Mom nods her head in apparent woman-to-woman solidarity.

I'm fairly certain it's more of an "I guess all those stories about you weren't exaggerated." As much as Mom enjoys a good-natured laugh at my expense, I trust her to behave admirably when so much is at stake.

"She's a lovely girl, your daughter."

"Yes," Renee answers, "she's always had a beautiful figure."

Bella buries her face in my shirt. "Oh my god. Is this really happening?"

"Oh no, dear, I wasn't talking about her body. I'm talking about Bella, as a person. She's a sweet, poised young lady with such a good head on her shoulders. My son is quite lucky to have her."

I've teared up, and I'm quite sure Bella's worse, but I'm too riveted to the scene playing out in front of us to find out.

Renee tugs Charlie's hand and draws him closer to my mother. "You're Edward's mother?"

"The one and only!" She's having a merry old time now.

"It's such a pleasure to meet you! I'm Renee, and this is Charlie."

Mom lifts a hand toward Renee, then watches with horror as it trembles uncontrollably. "Raoul, would you, please…?" He moves swiftly to her side and helps her to her feet. "This is my very special companion, Raoul. I don't know what I'd do without him."

Charlie draws my mother's hand from her side and clasps it between both of his own. "Wonderful to finally meet you… Esme, isn't it?"

"You must be so proud of your son," Renee says. "He's such a talented man."

"That he is," she says.

Bella nestles her face into the crook of my neck. "Do you think they know we can hear them?"

"Well, we are standing _right here_ ," I say none too softly.

Mom ignores us. "Bella really brings out the best in him."

"I feel a little awkward agreeing with you under the circumstances"—Charlie throws an embarrassed chuckle toward the photo—"but we consider ourselves extremely fortunate that your son found our Bella."

"They do make a lovely couple, don't they?" Mom angles her brilliant smile toward us, just enough to leave no doubt that we are seen and heard. "I've never seen him happier."

And I'm done here. " _Oooh-kay,_ how about that drink you promised me earlier?"

"Sounds like a damn fine idea to me."

.

.

.

I am wiped. Ten minutes to closing. The closing of the opening. _Damn_ , how much tequila did Bella put in this drink?

As it turns out, three pigs in a blanket do not make the most effective buffer for a stiff drink. The alcohol spreads like a drop of food coloring in a glass of water, bathing my brain, throat, and belly in warmth. It's probably good I didn't dare drink earlier in the evening when wits were needed about me.

Bella has left me to venture out with her parents for a spin through the rest of the gallery. Secretly, I think Charlie is hoping to come across more nudes so he can get that picture of his daughter out of his mind. Only tequila will get the picture of Charlie staring at the nude of Bella out of _my_ mind.

Feels good to knock back a cold drink and reflect, now that the hard part is behind me. The critics have come and gone. The exhibit seemed to be well received by all; of course, tomorrow's news will tell the story. Pretty much everyone I cared about showed up with the exception of siblings with busy lives. And the real win of this night, an unexpected bonus, the first meeting of the parents is over with!

The stragglers are basically here just for the cake pops and open bar at this point, so it's a bit of a surprise to see a lone viewer staring intently at the very last photo—the pièce de résistance, that soul-baring shot of Bella from above.

Bella had mentioned that Riley "might try to stop by" tonight. _Gee, thanks. Really?_ And here he is, in all his slicked-back hair, clingy pants, no-socks-with-loafers glory. At least he's dry this time.

Something about the way he's viewing the photo immediately gets under my skin. It's not the same balls-retracting terror as when Charlie was studying the nude. Nope, this is good old-fashioned caveman instincts kicking in. _Mine!_

I could stay right here and enjoy what's left of my drink. The photo is self-explanatory, plus he has the wall text to fill in the blanks: "'Trusting Love' - Empowered by letting go of the drive for independence, the quintessential listener speaks volumes with this elegant surrender." If only Riley would stand back a little, give it a rest . . .

 _Oh hell._

I toss back the last of my Bellarita and snag two cake pops from the stand. If Riley hears me coming, he doesn't let it break his concentration.

"Cake pop?" I hold it right in front of his face, between his eyeballs and Bella's lips.

"Thanks. Oh, hey! If it isn't famous Edward . . . or should I say 'even-more-famous Edward' now? Congrats on the show." We shake non-pop-holding hands, and he turns right back to the photo. "This one of Bella is so amazing. It's just like you wrote here, like she's basically saying, 'Do with me what you will.'"

"Yes." She was. _To me_.

"God, to be looked at like that . . ." Riley takes a bite of his pop and chews thoughtfully.

"Yes." I don't want to rub it in, but it's me she's looking at that way.

"She's stunning."

"She is."

He inches to his left, toward the hint of nipple at the edge of the photo. His head tips to one side, then the other, but he'll have to settle for shadows and his imagination. I have never been happier for my strategic crop.

"No offense to the photographer, I mean, these photos are amazing, but the woman probably couldn't take a bad picture if she tried."

"Can't argue with you there."

Still locked at the viewing angle, his head turns like a globe on its axis to face me. "Did you _want_ to?"

"Want to what?"

"Argue with me?"

"Huh? No."

 _Maybe_.

"Never mind." Riley turns his back to the photo, and my spike of hostility quiets down. "Hey, is Bella still here?"

"Of course. She's showing her parents around. They should be back . . . _ah_ , there they are now."

Bella looks completely frazzled, but her face lights up when she sees Riley. "You came!" She rushes over and they share a very affectionate hug.

"Yeah. Loved the show. Those pictures of you are so hot."

Bella's gaze moves from Riley to me to her parents. "Uh . . . thanks?"

"Was that weird? Sorry." Riley laughs and Bella joins in. "So, you're Bella's mom and dad?"

No sooner are introductions made than it's time for goodbyes.

"The old farts are gonna call it a night," Charlie says. "Congratulations, Edward. We're so happy we could celebrate with you."

Bella and Riley look like they have some catching up to do. "I'll walk you out," I say to the Swans.

"We so enjoyed meeting your mother," Renee says. "You have her smile."

"She enjoyed meeting you both as well. I wish you could have known her when she was . . . more herself."

"I'm sure she was quite the force in her day," Charlie says with an appreciative nod, "but she seemed sharp as a tack to me."

"Oh yeah, the mind's all there." _Count your mixed blessings_.

"I invited her to be our guest at Bella's graduation dinner," Renee says. "I hope she'll be able to come. I invited Raoul, too, obviously."

"That was very sweet of you. I'm sure she'd love that."

"The more the merrier. Garrett and Alec will both be home, too."

"It's starting to sound like Thanksgiving." And a lot of stress for Bella.

"Why don't you invite your sister to join us?" Renee says.

Charlie chimes in, "And Mrs. Cope."

We've reached their car, which is good because I think they'd probably keep thinking of more people to invite.

"You know, this is all really sweet of both of you, and I'm sure Bella would really be touched. I just want to make sure we don't give her any more things to stress about right now. I'm sure you can understand that." _Please, please understand that._

We've reached their car. Charlie opens the door for Renee. She hugs me tightly before climbing inside. "Of course we understand. We'll make it a surprise! That way she won't worry at all."

I glance over at Charlie, and his grin is wider than his moustache. I smile back even though I'm dying inside. Bella is going to kill me.

Charlie closes the passenger door, then offers his hand. "Congrats, Edward."

"Thank you again for coming." I pull back, but instead of letting go of my hand, Charlie draws me closer.

"You really cut it close on the nipple, son."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** How was that for an awkward first meeting of the future machatunim *****?  
 ***** Yiddish word for co-in-laws

Sincere gratitude to Pa T and Chayasara for keeping it real-ish. And thank YOU (yes, you!) for reading and for caring about these characters. Your notes keep me going!  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	10. Meatloaf Monday

**10 MEATLOAF MONDAY**

"Knock, knock."

It's a formality. The door's wide open, and Mom's seated in her wheelchair just inside the room, facing the hall. Still, it's one of the small dignities Mom has left, and I'll respect that as long as possible.

"No Bella today?"

"I'm afraid not. She sends her regrets. She's been holed up in the library for hours and just couldn't get away."

"Poor thing."

"Yep, this project is"— _kicking her ass_ —"getting the better of her right now." I lean down to kiss Mom's cheek. "Looks like you're stuck with me."

Mom's smile lifts on one side. "I've had worse dates."

Brightened by Mom's good cheer, I step behind the wheelchair and release the brakes. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard about these bad dates before. Surely, you cannot be referring to the charming Dr. Cullen."

"Of course not. Your father and I could have had a good time in a cardboard box."

"Hmm, that does sound like fun, Mom."

Raoul blows me a kiss as I wheel Mom past the nurses' station. " _Helloooo_ , loverboy."

This has now become my mother's favorite joke. Since Raoul let me in on his not-so-secret secret two weeks ago, he's been laying it on thick with the over-the-top flirting. Mom's soft giggles grow louder as I speed to the elevator and poke the _down_ button three quick times like a man trying to outrun the zombie apocalypse.

"Honey, I don't think you need to worry. You're really not Raoul's type."

"So, these bad dates?" I appeal to the blurry reflection in the metal doors.

"Fine. After your father passed, I really had no interest in dating, as you probably remember."

"Yes." Nor was I particularly eager to see my mother with another man.

"Carlisle was the love of my life. We were luckier than most. If I never kissed another man again, I would have been perfectly content."

"Um . . . starting to veer into TMI territory."

Mom shakes her head. "Such a delicate boy."

The elevator bell saves me. I back Mom's chair inside, greeting the other passengers with a friendly nod. Much to my chagrin, she continues her story after the doors close.

"You know how it is when someone dies. Everyone wants to 'help,'" she says, lifting her hands to form shaky air quotes. Yes, her captive audience of fellow residents know exactly how that is, which they indicate with nods and " _mmhmms_." _Great_. "I finally decided it would be easier to give in to all that pestering, so I agreed to go on a double date with your Uncle Aro's brother."

"Ew, Mom! Not Marcus the mortician!"

"That's the one."

"That guy is creepy as hell."

"You're telling me!" Our fellow elevator passengers chuckle at our exchange, but Mom is not deterred. "He seemed to think describing how to apply lipstick to a corpse would make for scintillating dinner conversation."

"Well, I'm happy to know I'm a better date than him, at least."

The elevator doors open, and we all file out in an orderly snail-trail to the dining room.

" _So_ far, so good," Mom says, "but we'll see how you do when they run out of meatloaf."

" _Pshh_. They haven't run out of meatloaf here in three years. I think I'll be okay."

She turns her head as far as her aging bones allow. "Oh, didn't I tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"I heard there was a short shipment from the meat vendor. They only got enough ground beef for the first thirty guests."

"Hold onto tight, Mom!" I motor us with extremely polite urgency through the throngs—"Excuse me!"—zipping around walkers—"On your left!"—and past wheelchairs—"Coming through!"

I'm slightly winded when we reach the hostess stand. Jessica seems amused by my enthusiasm. "Someone's hungry today!"

"I didn't want to miss out on the meatloaf," I explain while taking a mental tally of the diners. "Looks like you might have a dozen or so left?"

Jessica squinches her eyes at me. "Sorry?"

"Um . . . son?"

"What?"

"April Fools!"

"Seriously? Oh, you're a laugh riot, Mom." Jessica catches on now, and the two of them have a good ol' time while I wheel Mom to the table.

"Enjoy your lunch, Mrs. Cullen. You too, Edward." Jessica giggles as she heads back to her post.

"Glad you're having a good time today, _Mother_."

"Oh, I really am."

"Wait, was all that stuff about Marcus made up, too?"

"Oh no, that was the God's honest truth. Put me off dating for a full six months!"

The server brings over my meatloaf and Mom's high-protein, low-carb, Parkinson's-friendly lunch. They've started pre-cutting Mom's meal in the kitchen. On the one hand, it's a saving grace not to make her struggle to manage a knife or have to ask for help. But then, of course, there's the downside—the indisputable evidence of her slide. One more accommodation in a long string of accommodations.

"I don't want to make you jealous or anything, but this meatloaf tastes better than usual."

Mom nods. "That's because you thought you might not get any. Forbidden fruit."

"Heh, you know me pretty well."

It warms my heart to see the smile on Mom's face. "Well, don't forget, I've had forty-five years to get the hang of it."

I give Mom a little breather so she can bring a few shaky forkfuls to her mouth. It's been so long since I've been here without Bella, I hadn't realized how hard it's become for Mom to carry out the simple act of conversing while eating.

"C'mon, Mom. Did it really take that long for you to figure me out?"

"No, not really." She dabs her napkin across her mouth even though there's nothing there. "You haven't changed all that much in the last forty years. You're still the same sweet boy your kindergarten teacher gushed about."

"I like to think I've evolved a wee bit over time."

My attempt to keep it light is met by watery eyes. "You have grown into a fine man, Edward. If I never accomplished another thing in my life, I'd be proud of bringing you into this world. I mean that with all my heart." _Oh shit._

"Mom," I say softly, "that means everything to me."

She picks up her fork and goes after a piece of asparagus. "I'm not the only one who thinks you're talented. It's official now. What was it Jonathan Darby wrote . . .? Oh yes, 'the compassionate caress of the lens, masterfully sculpted with shadow and perspective.'"

That stops my meatloaf in its tracks. "You've memorized my reviews?"

She shrugs. "Only the good ones."

She cracks up first, but it doesn't take me long to follow. "They were all good." Some things can only be said to a guy's mother.

"Well, of course they were." Spoken just like a mom.

"My phone hasn't stopped ringing. I've got a dozen new clients scheduled in the next three weeks. Between the intake interview, the shoot, and the pre- and post-production meetings, that's . . . too many hours to fit in three weeks."

"That might explain why my silly joke got the better of you. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

"Trying."

"Eating?"

"Bella stops by every few days with some new pastry I have to taste from Orlovs'."

"Oh, Edward. You have to take care of yourself."

"I know. This whole thing kind of spun out of control—in a good way—but I haven't been able to catch my breath since the opening. With Bella going full throttle on her project and work, we haven't exactly balanced out each other's madness."

"How is Bella's project going?"

"Okay, I guess. She's been spending a ton of time with her partner, this guy named Riley. You just missed him at the opening."

"Oh, that was nice of him to come."

My eye roll is a little too automatic, and Mom is still too quick for me to get away with it.

"It wasn't nice of him to come?" she asks.

"It's fine. He's fine."

Mom shrinks back into her chair. "Oh dear."

I catch the attention of one of the servers and raise my coffee cup. "Mom, don't make this a thing, okay?"

"You seem not to like this person for some reason, and you inherited my excellent instincts, so now I'm worried."

"I'm sure everything will be fine."

"That's your third 'fine.'"

The coffee interruption gives me a chance to gain control over my loose lips. I thank the server, who knows me well enough to express surprise when I send her off without ordering dessert.

"Okay, now I know something's wrong," Mom says.

"I appreciate your concern." A sigh leaves me. So much for control. "Look, Mom, I'd really rather not say anything I might regret later."

"Oh, Edward. Do you really think I'd ever throw something back in your face? I'm not digging for dirt. I just don't like to see you looking so sad."

I guess I'm not hiding my feelings as well as I thought. "Okay, but Bella doesn't know anything about this." As the words leave my lips, I already know I have a problem. I don't keep things from Bella.

First off, I suck at hiding things. I've probably only gotten away with it so far because of how little time Bella and I have been together lately. More importantly, it undermines our relationship. I know these things. So what the hell is my problem?

I trust my mother, and she does know me pretty damn well. So, why not let her crawl around in my head a little?

"Riley was looking at the photos of Bella at my show."

"Forgive me, dear, but wasn't that the point?"

"There's looking . . . and there's _looking._ "

"I'll take your word for it."

"Unfortunately, it was impossible to miss. I was standing right there, right next to the guy, and he just . . . I feel like he was taunting me, trying to get a rise."

"And?"

"And nothing. I would never risk Bella's working relationship with her partner."

"Well, clearly, he's gotten to you."

 _Yep_. Now it's my hand that quakes as I draw the coffee cup to my lips. "I don't know what to do with this."

"Jealousy is a foreign emotion for you."

"I'm jealous?"

"You tell me."

"Did I mention the guy wears his hair in a bun?"

Mom rolls her lips inward so as not to smile.

"Okay, fine. Maybe I'm a little anxious she might go for an attractive man closer to her age."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere."

"Nowhere good," I answer miserably.

"Uncharted territory of the heart," she answers.

"But why now? I've never been in a committed relationship this long before, never felt so confident about my feelings and Bella's. Why does this guy get to me?"

"It's not ever about the 'other man' or the 'other woman.' How many times have you, yourself, told me that this relationship with Bella was different from the start?"

 _My dessert-first girl_.

"Yes. Different, less work, simpler, more natural . . . but I don't see your point."

"You might say there was a certain pattern to the choices you made before Bella, no?"

"You're referring—very tactfully, I might add—to my savior complex?"

"Aww, that sounds so clinical. You like to make people feel good about themselves."

"Guilty as charged."

"And that's not a bad thing. _Perhaps_ ," Mom starts gently, bless her, "there's less risk of getting hurt when you believe the other person needs you more than you need her?"

"True enough." Bella and I explored this early on, when she was trying to reason out why I'm still single. "Clearly, I broke the mold with Bella."

"How scary that must be for you."

 _Scary? Still?_

"Are you trying to say that for two whole years, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop?"

"I wouldn't say you've been waiting," Mom says, "but you do seem to be giving your doubts an awfully warm welcome."

She's right, of course. Why would I open myself up to so much pain when everything is going so well for us?

"Better now than later, I guess."

"Ah . . . well, we finally agree on something."

I manage a smile. I guess it feels a little better to understand why I've been feeling lousy. "You realize you're giving me a bit of a mixed message, here."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I don't have an easy answer for you. You have to trust your gut."

"Oh, great."

"You happen to have a very good gut.

"Which is churning right now."

Her gentle, motherly smile instantly calms my nerves. "Have you ever heard the expression, 'Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterward'?"

"Of course."

"Do that. Just be careful when widening your eyes that you don't behave like a jealous ass and push Bella into the arms of another man."

"Good talk, Mom. Thanks a bunch."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Many, many thanks to my special guest star expert resource, **Jan Grose Martindale,** for her advice with all things Esme: the likely progression of her Parkinson's, assistive devices, emotions/responses of loved ones, etc. Jan's wisdom and generosity helped guide my words in this chapter and the last, but if I've missed the mark, put the blame on me! Thank you, as always, to my super duper trooper beta, **Chayasara** , for helping me with the oddball shit I like to pull with dashes and dots, but also for lending her heart to every chapter. And **Pa T**... even when there's no camera in sight, you are my rock and my slave driver! MWAH!

My own mother has a coffee mug with that pithy little saying about marriage, and I guess I've always held the sentiment in the back of my mind! That said, darling (Mr. H)... I see you! Now, let's see how Edward does with that, shall we?  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	11. An Unexpected Treat

**11 AN UNEXPECTED TREAT**

Mom's confusing advice rattles around my head on the bus ride home, and I'm no clearer when I reach my stop. Eyes wide open or not, I'm not about to blow this thing with Riley out of proportion. If Riley's comments at the gallery bothered Bella any more than one of her Hooters customers, she never let on to me. I'm certainly not going to be the one to bring it up again.

Hell, I'm not even supposed to see Bella for another three days. At this rate, I'll be lucky to exchange texts with her today.

I pull out my phone as I stroll down the block. Yep, I've officially become one of those cellphone zombies, eyes fixed on the tiny box that holds the lifeblood of every human encounter inside. I even scroll one-handed now. _Go, me._

Nothing from Bella.

I slide the phone into my jacket and aim my eyes forward like a normal biped again, and I'm immediately rewarded by the sight of a figure on my stoop. _Way to go with the positive reinforcement, universe!_ I'd know that hunched-over girl anywhere, even with her face hidden behind a curtain of hair.

We're going to need to have that key talk again. I know she feels weird being here if I'm not home—and even weirder if I'm downstairs with a client—but this is damn inconvenient. What if it were cold out or raining?

"Bella?" I break into a jog.

Her head turns, and she smiles at me. "Hey!" Whatever she was working on gets jammed into her backpack as she stands and shakes out her legs.

"What are you doing here?" I pluck her off the stoop and into a hug. "I didn't think I would see you today."

"I can go back to the library if you want."

"Not a chance!" I kiss the smirk right off her lips . . . and then some. "Can you stay?"

"Just for a few minutes. I'm on at four, but I wanted to bring you this . . ." She dangles a white bakery bag in front of my face.

Bella _and_ a bakery treat! I can't get the key into the lock fast enough. "This is kind of perfect. I didn't have dessert today."

She giggles. "Would it have mattered?"

"I might have waited a few minutes to eat this."

"Go on. Try it." She's grinning with her whole face.

I reach my hand into the bag. Whatever it is, it's warm from the oven.

"You came all the way home just to bring me a—what the hell is this?" If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a donut, but something's not quite right.

"It's a dossant."

"A what, now?"

"It's a cross between a donut and a croissant. Some baker in New York trademarked the 'cronut' a few years ago, so Pop-Pop had to come up with a different twist. He's been experimenting a bit with the filling. I have a feeling you'll like this."

"Since you came all this way, I'll give it a taste, but I'm skeptical."

"Oh, ye of little faith."

"The donut is already perfect as is. You don't ask Mother Nature to make a better rainbow."

"Mmhmm." Bella takes hold of my wrist and guides the strange pastry to my mouth.

Right off the bat, the cinnamon sugar grabs my tongue's attention. I bite through the fried shell and instead of the cakey interior, my teeth meet a delicate tower of flaky, airy pastry layered with sweet custard.

"Oh! _Mmmm_. Damn, Bella! This is really good. Here, have a bite."

"I already ate a whole one at the shop." She pushes the dough-whatever away from her lips. "Besides, it's way more fun watching you eat it."

"I beg to differ." If Bella had any idea what a turn-on it is to watch her eat sweets . . .

"Am I forgiven for missing Meatloaf Monday?"

"You don't need to be forgiven. My mother fully understands."

"And you?"

"If I say yes, will it discourage you from bribing me with sweets in the future?"

"Not a chance."

That mischievous smile in front of me needs kissing. The sugary goodness passes from my lips and tongue to Bella's, and back again. Screw the cronut, give me this _kiss_ - _sant_ any day. I steal one last taste of Bella's lips as she pulls away.

Already, a slight frown has replaced her playful smile. "There will be lots more treats in your future— _if_ we can keep this bakery afloat."

"Of course you can!"

"Your confidence in me is"—she turns away, shakes her head, finishes just above a whisper—"actually, it's a little scary."

"Whoa. Hey." I jiggle her hand until she faces me again. "Come sit down with me."

Bella lets out a deep sigh while I lead her to the couch.

"Scary, how?"

"A lot to live up to, maybe?"

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't mean to add more pressure. I have great faith in you—that's all."

"That makes one of us." That damn frown breaks my heart.

"Think about how much you've learned in the last two and a half years."

"Yeah, in the classroom. That's not real life."

"Isn't that the whole point of this case study, to apply the concepts you've learned to a real-world situation? Nobody expects you to have all the answers."

"I feel like everyone else knows so much more than I do."

"Everyone else . . . you mean Riley?" I can barely say his name without sneering. If that motherfucker is making Bella feel inadequate, I will tell him where he can shove his man-bun.

Bella doesn't confirm the accusation, but she doesn't deny it, either. "I've been at the library at eight every morning, researching acquisitions, digging up stories of family businesses that have defended against corporate buyouts. I'm just not sure how much more I can do to prepare myself, and I feel like I'll never be caught up."

Battle stations! _We are in meltdown mode, people!_ Sirens blare. Bright, red lights pulse. A nuclear missile rushes toward the hull. Dive!

Bella didn't stop by today to ply me with sweets; she came because she's drowning.

It's times like these I'd kill to have that answer key. Why hasn't anyone invented one by now? You load in the circumstances—stress, lack of sleep, crisis of confidence, disparaging co-worker—and boom! Out comes your answer. Give her a hug. Put her to bed. Get her talking. Kiss her till she's numb. Punch out the bun-headed butthead.

With only my instincts to guide me, I wrap my arms around Bella and gently pull her to my chest. Her body stays rigid, fighting the comfort as if giving in will weaken her. I drop a soft kiss on the top of her head. She wriggles out of my arms. I have no choice but to let her go.

 _Crap, how did I miss the dark circles under her eyes?_ I don't need a computer algorithm to tell me to keep that little discovery to myself. The last thing Bella needs to hear before an eight-hour shift is that she looks as exhausted as she feels.

I try a different angle this time. "Bella, please don't forget all you have to offer. There's more to good decision-making than crunching numbers."

"Right," Bella huffs. "I'm sure Riley feels much better knowing his partner can mix him a mean Margarita."

I desperately want to take her hands in mine, but I fear she'll pull even further away. "You're selling yourself short. You have an innate sense for what this business means for the Orlovs and a respect for the family history that goes beyond an income statement. Jeez, you practically had me in tears last week, telling me the story of how Pop-Pop's dead wife's grandmother taught her how to make blintzes in the old country."

"There's no place for anecdotal data in our earnings model. Riley says it's important to stay objective."

"Well, maybe Riley doesn't know everything." _Whoops. Where are you going with that, ol' Ed_? Sowing the seeds of doubt won't help Bella right now.

"He knows a hell of a lot more than I do," she says. Great, now I've got her defending him.

"Me, too," I admit with a helpless shrug. "I really wish I could help you, but I haven't taken a business class since my freshman year of college. I think they called it 'Finance for Artistic Dummies' or something like that."

She lifts her soft, brown eyes and twists her mouth into a tired half-smile. I'll take it.

"It's okay," she says. "We'll get through it. Riley's got a good head on his shoulders."

"So do you. I just don't want you to let him make you feel like you're not contributing equally. I'm sure you are."

"Spoken like my boyfriend."

"Spoken like someone who knows your worth."

"You make it sound as if Riley puts me down all the time. It's not like that." _Bye-bye smile._

"No, he just tells you your ideas are irrelevant."

She jumps to her feet. "Maybe they are. Look, we both know I'm not cut out for a career in high finance. Maybe it would be better all around if I just go along with his ideas and stop trying to rock the boat."

I lean back into the couch cushions. If it's important to Bella that she tower over me, then let her have the advantage. I'm not trying to win anything or threaten her further. Riley's clearly done enough of that.

"What about the Orlovs, Bella? Don't you think it's worth pursuing every option for their sake?"

"Who cares about backstory when your competitors can pump out ten times the volume at half the price?"

"So, there's no value at all to honoring tradition or crafting something with your hands just because you can't put a dollar sign to it?"

"Times change. Gotta keep up. Would you use a map when you can use _Waze_?"

"I believe maps have their place. There's nothing quite like unfolding a big roadmap on the dining table and seeing the whole journey ahead. I find it rather romantic, actually."

"Zoom out . . . zoom in." She illustrates the point with all the romance of a robot, moving her thumb and forefinger apart, then together again. "It's just that easy."

It's a healthy sign that Bella feels safe playing devil's advocate with me, but if she's actually starting to believe this crap Riley has been jamming down her throat, we've got a problem.

"If I follow your logic, all my zoom lenses would be unnecessary, too. In fact, why should I even buy a camera when I can use my iPhone?" My voice has somehow grown larger and sharper than where it started. "Come to think of it, why would anyone need a photographer at all? Just toss me on the junk heap with the maps and the blintzes and all the rest of the outdated relics to make room for the new, improved models."

It's the quiver of her lower lip that makes me realize I've gone too far. Almost immediately, she sets her jaw with that me-against-the-world determination I've seen from her time and time again. I've just never been part of that world she had to steel herself against.

"Shit, Bella. I'm sorry." I stand up and reach for her, but her reflexes are too quick for me.

"I have to go to work." She throws her backpack over one arm and bolts for the door.

"Bella, _please_. Let me drive you?"

"No, it's fine. I'm fine," she says, then pulls the door closed.

Not one, but two "fines" . . . and a door between us.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Oh boy. Still love me? :)

SEE SOME OF YOU CRAZY CHICAS IN VEGAS TONIGHT!

 **XXX ~BOH**


	12. Hooters

**12 HOOTERS**

I'd hoped Bella might respond last night to my apology text: **_Please forgive your April Fool_**. But she didn't. Not on her dinner break and not after her shift.

This morning, a text comes in while I'm draining my second cup of coffee: **_Sorry, work's been a nightmare. Busy day today._** Brief, ambiguous, the kind of message that'll knock a guy off balance even if it wasn't intended to.

I know the answer this time: leave it alone. Easier said than done. Fortunately, I have plenty of work to divert my attention from my girlfriend woes.

I spend the morning with a new client who caught my show and made an appointment to explore the idea of an empowerment shoot. After three full hours in the ante-room, she's not sure she's ready to be the "after picture," but I can see the possibilities take hold in her mind before she leaves. The seed has been planted, a seed that would not have found its way to my studio without Victoria's intervention.

Photo editing, an exacting process that requires my complete attention, fills my afternoon. My distraction strategy works—until the bitter aftertaste of my unpleasant parting with Bella requires action.

A phone call is not an option while Bella is at work, and another text—even if it might be welcomed—will most likely go unnoticed until much later. It seems my only choice is the oldest-school of all, sorting this out in person. I'll never last till 2 a.m. when Bella's shift is over, and that would be a lousy time for two exhausted people to try to hold a meaningful conversation.

I force myself to work until six. Five minutes later I'm in my car, heading straight for my favorite flower stand down the block.

Deb catches me eyeing the red roses. "Uh-oh, what'd you do?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'll need a dozen of these."

"Oh dear." She wraps a cheerful bow around the cellophane and wishes me luck. I have a feeling I'll need it.

I find Emmett and a new waitress I don't know behind the bar, but no Bella. Boyfriends are discouraged from visiting, especially during peak hours, but Emmett knows I'm not one to abuse the privilege. I squeeze around the end of the bar. The roses catch Emmett's eye, and he claps his hands over his heart.

"You shouldn't have." _Funny guy._

"Is Bella on break?"

"No, she called in earlier, asking if I could make do without her today."

"Wow. She did?" I don't know what makes me feel worse—Bella's desperation in calling in or the fact that we're so out of sync.

"Right?" Emmett says. "She sounded wiped."

"Poor Bella."

"I know I'm a distant second to your favorite bartender, but you look like you could use a drink."

Clearly, Bella doesn't want to be found, wherever she is. "Yeah, that's not a bad idea."

"There's a guy paying his check at the other end. I'll have a Corona waiting for you."

"You're a good man, Emmett. Thank you."

Emmett gives me a friendly pat on the back. I'm stuck here in pre-stool limbo for several self-conscious minutes, the pathetic guy cradling the undelivered bouquet, while the customer takes his sweet time stepping away from the stool. True to his word, Emmett slaps a beer onto the bar in front of me. I poke the lime wedge down the neck of the bottle and take a long pull while Emmett watches.

"How about some food to soak up the alcohol?" he asks.

"I guess I could eat."

"Will you be having the chicken Caesar or fish tacos today?"

"Wow, am I that predictable?"

Emmett shrugs. "Let's call it reliable. It sounds so much nicer."

"Y'know what? Screw it. Give me the barbecue bacon burger."

"Whoa," Emmett says, falling away from the bar as if he might faint. "And how would you like that cooked today, sir?"

"I couldn't care less."

"Right." Taking his cue from my pissy mood, Emmett leaves to punch in my order and doesn't visit me again except to deliver two more beers and my heart attack on a plate.

Left to my own devices, I survey the dinnertime crowd. A few young couples here and there, but the clientele is largely men. Alone, buddied up, or in groups, their ogling is hard to miss. Eyes on the boobs as the servers approach, on the tiny orange shorts as they leave. The craned neck, the prolonged stare, the self-conscious chuckle, the knowing grins.

I'll admit, it gets to me once in a while, visualizing Bella at work amidst the horny gazes directed at her body by so many strangers. _As if I'm any better than the rest_. Can I honestly say it wasn't Bella's body that brought me to this bar for three days, tracking down a girl I barely knew?

The bottom of my last beer is warm, sour backwash, the perfect ending to a failed make-up mission. What was I thinking, hanging around this place? Which part of this experience was supposed to improve my mood, watching Bella's co-workers hustle for tips or washing down a month's worth of red meat with french fries and beer? _Ugh, enough_.

I fish some cash out of my wallet and stuff an extra twenty into the glass with the check. Emmett deserves more than that for putting up with my sorry ass tonight, but mostly, I want him to know how much I appreciate his giving Bella a break. I grab my thirsty roses and turn to leave.

"Whoa, whoa, WHOA!" I spin around to find Emmett sprinting from the other end of the bar. "Wait up, man!"

"What?"

"You're not leaving like that."

"Dammit, Emmett, are you bouncering me? I had a few beers. I'm perfectly fine."

"Bouncering? That's not even a word. You are definitely not fine."

I can't get into this with him right now. "I promise you I am."

"Wait, okay?" Emmett grabs my arm. "Talk to me."

How many times have I seen Bella do this when a customer seemed out of sorts? "Oh, I get it, now. You're bartendering me."

"I'm _friending_ you," Emmett answers. "You seem upset. Come on; sit down. Do you really have somewhere else you need to be?" _Yeah, thanks for pointing that out._

There's no fight in me. The only person I'm mad at is me. I flop back down on the stool.

Emmett sprays some seltzer into a fresh glass and plunks a lime wedge onto the rim. "Don't want to mix your fruits. You started with lime; we'll stick with lime."

"Thanks." I chug half the drink, mainly to avoid talking, but Emmett's not going anywhere. "So tell me, _friend,_ did I just turn into one of those pathetic guys who comes in here to stare at girls' tits?"

Emmett tosses the dishtowel over his shoulder. "So far, you've only stared at me."

"That's true—and possibly even more pathetic."

He agrees with a sly nod. "You want to tell me what's wrong?"

"Not particularly."

Emmett leans back against the counter behind him and crosses one ankle over the other. "Tell me anyway."

His bartender voodoo pulls the words from my lips. "I messed up with Bella."

"Hence the roses. What happened?"

"I might have gotten a little defensive."

"That doesn't sound like you."

"It doesn't feel like me either. This final project of hers is setting both of us on edge."

"It has to be rough trying to carve out time to be together when two people are as busy as you and Bella."

"Time's not the issue."

"Stress?"

"Maybe," I say.

"Maybe not?"

 _Fuck it._ Saying the problem out loud won't give it more power. "It's her damn partner. I think I'm letting him get to me."

"Riley?"

"You know him?"

"Sure." Emmett frowns when he sees my dismay. "The guy comes in here sometimes. So what?"

"For starters, he is attracted to Bella."

"So is every straight dude with a pair of eyeballs."

"Gee, thanks, Emmett. That is super helpful."

"Bella's always surrounded by admirers. You've come in here tons of times, and never once have I seen you anything but confident—and rightfully so. You've never pulled the jealous boyfriend routine on me, thank god."

"The guys in here don't bother me. They're just customers passing through. Bella can flirt, make them feel good, whatever. I know she doesn't mean anything by it, and if anyone gets too close, you and Rose have her back."

"Damn straight."

"Riley is no stranger passing through. He and Bella are locked together for another month on this project. She's all impressed with his business know-how . . ."

"I take it you're not?"

"He talks about this analyst job as if he worked on Wall Street for two years, and yet he's in an undergrad program? I'm guessing he spent eight weeks behind a desk one summer between lifeguard jobs."

Emmett nods as if he knows the type. "Something tells me Bella wouldn't be snowed. She's pretty savvy that way."

"Normally, I'd agree. I think part of her needs to believe in Riley because she's not quite ready to trust her own judgment."

"And being the good guy you are, you're not about to be the one to burst that bubble."

"I didn't mean to. I mean, I was trying not to, but Bella kept putting herself down, and I kind of snapped." Replaying the conversation makes me feel awful all over again. "Anyway, she didn't much care for my analysis of the situation."

Emmett's "Yikes!" makes me flinch.

"Pretty much."

"Okay, look," Emmett says, leaning forward onto the bar. "Eventually, the guy will reveal his true colors, and his larger-than-life status will shrink back to normal—"

"—And he'll still be way closer to Bella's age and, let's face it, not exactly hard on the eyes, even with that pretentious hairdo."

"You know, if you'd just let your hair grow out for about three months, I think you could totally rock the man-bun."

"I'll get back to you on that just as soon as I'm ready for my hipster makeover."

Emmett chuckles. "What's plan B?"

"I don't know. How would someone your age fix this?"

"Hmm, let me try to remember the last time I messed up with Rosie . . . nope, that was her fault . . . nope . . ."

He's ridiculous, and it works.

Emmett smiles back at me. "Phew! That's a fucking relief."

"Thanks, I needed that."

"Look, Bella probably just wants you to stop making it weird. She is no drama llama."

"One of the things I love most about her."

"And you've got that maturity thing working for you." He shrugs when I groan. "I'm just saying, _use_ it. Say you're sorry for getting defensive, and stop letting jealousy cloud your judgment."

"The first part will be easy. Not so sure about the second."

"You're evolved. I get it. You want to think you're above all the macho bullshit, and probably a good ninety-plus percent of the time, you are. But guess what, my friend. Deep down, we're all basically made of the same material. You can't fight the nature of the beast."

"What am I supposed to do about this beast inside me?"

"Embrace it, or at least accept it. Do you not look at other women with any kind of desire?"

"I wouldn't call it desire as much as scenery. I appreciate beauty. Does that sound disrespectful?"

"First of all, you are the least disrespectful person I've ever met. Second, hell if I know. I'm not exactly the measure of political correctness. I manage a Hooters, for fuck's sake."

"I think you're a decent man."

"Thanks, and so are you. Definitely the best man for Bella. She knows that. _Everyone_ knows that."

"But how do we know for sure if we don't test it?"

"Test it?" Emmett starts shaking his head and looks like he may never stop. "Oh, _nononono_. I don't like the sound of this."

"If you love something set it free . . ."

"Dude. That is for butterflies, not hot, awesome girlfriends."

"Shouldn't the same principle apply?"

"Hell no. You are not breaking up with Bella!"

"I never said I was breaking up with her."

"What do you think 'set it free' means?"

"Giving her some space . . ."

"'Space' is code for breaking up. Do _not_ go there." Someone down the bar signals for Emmett. Without taking his eyes off me, he gestures to the other customer that he needs a minute. "Tell me you won't say the 'S word' again."

"Fine. What would you call staying out of her way so she can make up her mind?"

"About _what_?"

"About who she wants."

"You are making no sense, Edward. She knows who she wants. She made up her mind two years ago."

"Yes, before Riley became an option."

"Riley is _not_ an option."

"Maybe he should be! That's my whole point. If we're right for each other, she'll choose me, not just stay with me by default."

"Wow. I can't decide if you're the bravest or the stupidest or the most altruistic man on the planet."

"You forgot masochistic."

"I thought that one was obvious," Emmett says. "All I can tell you is I would never give Rosie that kind of opening. Test, _shmest_."

"I think we owe it to ourselves to find out before . . ."

"Before what?"

"You know, making our arrangement more permanent."

Emmett punches me square in the chest. I'm rethinking that tip. "Aha! Now I get it."

"Good."

"I get it, but I do not condone it—at all," Emmett says, wagging his finger at me.

"Noted."

He leans across the bar and lowers his voice to a whisper. "Are you planning on sniffing around?"

"Hell, no. I finished sniffing the day Bella kissed me."

"Thank god. Because if I had any part in encouraging that, Rosie would have my balls."

"Don't worry. You're officially off the hook."

Emmett seems relieved at the prospect of keeping his balls, and I don't blame him.

"And Edward, I really hope everything works out for you guys. I like you both . . . a lot . . . and I like you together. If you two don't make it, I don't know what that says about anybody else's chances."

"If we're meant to be, we'll be fine. If not, I'd rather know now." _Eyes wide open_.

"Whatever, man."

"Y'know what? Here." I toss the roses to Emmett. "Thanks for being a friend."

"What the hell am I supposed to do with these?" He stares down at the bouquet in his arms as if it's a baby someone left on his doorstep.

"For starters, they need water. After that, I don't know . . . give them to your girlfriend?"

Emmett bursts out laughing. "If I come home with a dozen roses, Rosie'll think I'm fooling around on her."

 _Unbelievable_. "Maybe you should fix that."

"Uh . . . no offense, man, but I'm not sure I want your relationship advice right now."

A snappy comeback bubbles up inside my chest, but staring back at the guy holding the flowers I couldn't deliver to the girl I pissed off, I have to admit, Emmett's got a point.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Let's see... about half of you are mad at Edward, a quarter of you think Bella's a brat, some are in the bound-to-happen camp, and I got out of the deal unscathed! I love that you a few of you knew he'd go to Hooters tonight and try to make it right. Alas, Bella was otherwise occupied! *wails* So, talk to me. What do you think of Edward's interpretation of his mother's advice? What about Emmett? Did he steer him right?

Had such a lovely time at TFMU, meeting and hanging out with some of you! I'm also really enjoying the new readers who found me through the Fic Dive at A Different Forest! Thank you all for your votes and the lovely honor for this saga!  
 **XOXOX ~BOH**


	13. Freeing the Butterfly

**13 FREEING THE BUTTERFLY**

I'd promised myself I wouldn't message her again until I'd heard something— _anything—_ from Bella. I am just about ready to give up and turn in for the night, not that I expect to sleep, when Bella opens the lines of communication again: **_Emmett told me you stopped by with roses tonight._**

Her maddeningly brief text tells me nothing about her state of mind or what else Emmett told her, but at least it gives me the opening.

 ** _I wanted to apologize in person for my behavior yesterday._** I type and erase " ** _May I call you?_** " before hitting send.

I'm beginning to appreciate the art of texting. It's so much easier to free the butterfly when she can't hear the despair in my voice, when I can edit the uninvited words before they're delivered by too-earnest lips.

 ** _I'm sorry too. No idea how we leapt from cronuts to throwing you on the junk heap_**.

That would be me, acting like an insecure boob. **_The last thing I meant to do was add to your stress._**

 ** _I know._**

I stare at the phone, hoping she'll tack on more words, preferably absolution. When nothing happens, I shift my gaze to the TV. Even Seth Myers interviewing Jennifer Lawrence doesn't lift my mood.

I guess it's my turn now in this silly game of phone pong. Yep, Bella and I are playing games now—something I've always been so proud of us for not doing to each other.

 ** _Is it too late to stop by?_** I've also vowed not to drop in on Bella again uninvited, but if she'd agree to see me, I would throw on some pants and appear at Shelly's back door before _Waze_ could say, "You've arrived at your destination."

 ** _I'm not home._** Ugh, poor Bella. It's nearly one a.m.

 ** _Didn't know the library was open so late. Call me for a ride when you're ready?_**

With all the late nights, Bella's Uber charges have to be adding up, a double whammy after sacrificing a day's wages. It's not even the money; I hate the idea of her getting into a stranger's car at this ungodly hour. If I have to stay awake another couple of hours, I'll make myself an extra strong pot of coffee tomorrow before my eight a.m. client.

 ** _Thx but not at library._** This time, Bella doesn't stop. Each new line of text stings like a slap across my face. ** _  
Ri and I grabbed a bite at his apartment.  
Trying to squeeze in another hour of work tonight.  
Gonna crash here._**

Thank goodness for the dispassionate transmission of words across a screen. There's no way I could vocalize a civil message right now. I can barely type one, but I do—because really, what choice do I have?

 ** _I won't keep you._**

The words I just sent mock me from the mute screen. _I won't keep you_. If that's not throwing the cage door wide open, I don't know what the hell is.

Bella's response is less than comforting: **_Thx. G'night._**

Thanks for not keeping her?

 ** _Sleep well. Love you. XX_**

I don't expect an answer, and she doesn't surprise me with one. This was barely a conversation to begin with, and it's definitely over now.

 _Bella presses the sleep button and sets the phone and, by proxy, her boyfriend out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind. She turns back to "Ri"—_ gag _—and says, "Sorry 'bout that."_

 _"No worries," he says, smiling oh-so-opportunistically._

Enough torture for one day! I slam the mental lens cap over the pictures in my head and drag myself to bed. It's up to the butterfly now.

.

.

.

Three days, eight text messages from Bella. I hate that I counted. She's been better about calling during her breaks at Hooters, but we never have much of chance to scratch below the surface.

Our four nights a week at my place have dwindled to one or two—better than nothing, but not what I'd call quality time. I reassure her I'm not going anywhere, that I understand she's giving me as much as she can. I remind her this won't be forever. I try to be a source of energy and not a drain. I don't pressure her for more.

If Bella turns the conversation to her project, I try to listen compassionately without offering solutions. What feels so natural when I'm with a client is so much harder with Bella. Her pain and disappointment and doubt are my own.

I worry about her. I hate going days without laying eyes on her to see for myself how she's doing. A line or two of text just isn't enough to know that she hasn't slid down the rabbit hole of finals hell I saw back in the fall of 2016—the no-eat, no-sleep, no-confidence days. Bella was in rough shape that first semester before we discovered some strategies I could use to calm her: a hot bath, massage, comfort foods, and lots and lots of sex. Hard and fast, long and drawn-out, in the bedroom, in the great room, in the kitchen, and once—and never again—in the family bathroom at the mall. _Shivers._

I'm plenty busy, too, distracted with clients by day and the editing I've let bleed into my nights. Heading into the last week of the show, Victoria has me busier than ever with interviews with all kinds of obscure publications I've never heard of before and meet-ups with "thought influencers," whatever the hell that means.

The pond is alive with ripples of possibility: _Would I consider traveling to Australia? How about a joint show with portrait painter XYZ? Could I be persuaded to teach a course in Women's Studies? Would I reconsider reproduction of my work for retail sales?_

I miss having Bella to bounce ideas off. Even if she could carve out the time for the discussion, this kind of intense exploration feels too dangerous for us right now. The last time we broached a topic of any depth, walls went up and feelings were hurt. We'll have to work to gain back the intimacy we've put on hold. We've been through stretches like this before, just never this long and never this cut off from each other.

Operation Butterfly sucks.

Four more weeks is a long time to dangle at the end of this tether. I'd like to believe we've built up enough reserves to see us through, but my heart could sure use a jump start. I can handle the other physical urges if I must, but days at a time without a single kiss when I know Bella's _right down the block_ leads me to a reckless text on Sunday morning: **_I miss you_**. ** _Can I borrow you for an hour today?_**

Her answer is sweet, even if it's another rejection: **_I wish. We have a meeting with our advisor tomorrow. Making the most of our time. Miss you too._**

.

.

.

I know where to catch Bella after class on Tuesday, and she can't possibly object to having a hot coffee pressed into her hand by her loving boyfriend. My efforts pay off when Bella spots me at the bottom of the stairs and skips toward me.

"Edward! What are you doing here?"

"Delivering my girl a coffee and stealing a kiss, not necessarily in that order." I haven't quite gotten past that night Bella chose spaghetti over sex, so I hold Bella's coffee hostage behind my back until she kisses me.

This concrete slab outside Bella's building is not the most romantic setting, but absence makes the lips grow fonder. _Ahhh,_ I can almost feel the needle moving from empty toward full on my battery charge as our lips and tongues meet up after too long a separation. Bella giggles when I drag out our kiss longer than expected. I may be a bit exuberant.

When she pulls back, I don't even mind because now I get to see her playful smile. "Did somebody mention coffee?"

I produce the cup like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. She draws it toward her mouth with both hands, closes her eyes, and breathes in. Her eyes light up with recognition.

"Peppermint mocha? Really?"

 _Damn,_ I love spoiling her. "Really."

"You are the best boyfriend ever invented!" Anyone passing by would think she was tasting chocolate for the first time. In true Bella fashion, she offers me some before she takes her second sip.

"I've already had a double shot. You enjoy." And she does, but I'll bet I enjoy her enjoyment more than she enjoys the coffee.

"Hey, it's Famous Edward!"

It appears the cute nickname has stuck. _Wonderful_. "What's up, _Ri_?" _Take that!_

"Bells and I were just about to head to the library for a while."

" _Bells_?" Ugh. I stare down the wunderkind even though I hate wasting time I could be looking at Bella. "What's that about? Did you miss the 'a' on your keypad?"

Bella snickers and steps into my arms again, but this time it's to say goodbye. "Thank you for bringing me coffee and a kiss. And it's not even raining today!"

"I'm working on expanding my repertoire."

With one needy gaze, she turns my innocent comment into something entirely different. "Don't tease me, mister."

I close the distance between our lips. "Just reminding you what you're missing." I kiss her gently this time, a kiss she might think about later and smile.

A throat clears, drawing my attention to a set of eyeballs over Bella's shoulder. Riley wears that same longing expression he did at the gallery while studying the photo of Bella _. Guess what, pal. It's still me Bella's looking at_.

"I gotta go," Bella says, her tone so weary it hurts my heart.

"You know where to find me." I press a kiss to her forehead and watch the two of them leave.

.

.

.

Bella's messaging picks up the next couple of days. Emojis make a happy return to her texts. Even if they're not always smiley faces, I take it as an encouraging sign that her sense of humor is still in there somewhere. I've made a couple of non-smothering stabs at getting together: **_Quick lunch?_** Wednesday, **_Ride home?_** Thursday; only to be answered with **_Wish I could_** and **_That's okay._**

Friday morning, a sliver of sun peeking around my bedroom shade injects my heart with fresh optimism. The self-imposed restraint of Operation Butterfly feels unreasonably oppressive. Maybe we can stretch the boundaries just a bit.

 ** _Study break today?_**

 ** _Ugh can't. :( Bad day._**

 ** _What's wrong?_**

 ** _We need to find 5 more comps. #)(*#% &(!*%^&#_**

I have no idea what a comp is, but context tells me Bella isn't a fan. ** _Sounds painful._**

 ** _Yeah. Especially since we thought we had enough._**

 ** _How do you know you don't? Maybe you're doubting yourself for no good reason._**

 ** _Nope. There's a rubric. We need 8. We have 3.  
8 – 3 = 5._**

Uh-oh. Sarcasm. The cancer of communication.

 ** _Why didn't your prof give you the rubric at the beginning?_**

 ** _He did._**

They got the instructions in the beginning, and they're just discovering this important detail now? I type and erase three different questions starting with "why." Nothing good ever comes of that.

 ** _How can I help you?_**

 ** _Do your superpowers include stopping time?_**

 ** _I'm afraid not._**

 ** _I've already asked Emmett for the weekend off. Gonna hole up at Riley's and grind it out._**

Now, there's an unhappy thought.

 ** _Please take care of yourself. You know you need your sleep._** I have never felt so entirely useless. Do I really have no power to improve Bella's situation beyond sending words I know will fall on deaf ears?

 ** _I need to not fail my final project more._**

 ** _Right._** So much for my sunny, anything-can-happen day.

 ** _There is one thing… could you drop in on Mrs. C at some point?_**

 ** _Sure. I'll see if she wants to have dinner this weekend._**

 ** _She'll love that! Thx._**

 ** _Of course. Want me to swing by with leftovers?_**

 ** _No thx. Gonna brave Ri's cooking._**

I might need to borrow some of Bella's expletives to fully express my feelings about Riley cooking for her. I swear, if he puts his coq anywhere near my girl, I'll—

 _You'll what? Crush her under the weight of your insecurity?_ No, I don't think so. _Be a man, Edward. Let her choose._

 _And for the love of God, keep it light right now._ _ **I suppose there's always takeout if things don't go well in the kitchen.**_

 ** _Yep. I gotta run now._**

I type the only message that matters though I suspect Bella will gloss over the words as a signature rather than an SOS from my heart.

 ** _I love you_** _._

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Think _Ri'_ s gonna make her some _coq-au-man-bun_? *gasp*

Have I mentioned how much I love your umbrella posts on my Facebook pages? Umbrellas = Love!  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	14. Breaking Down the Show

**14 BREAKING DOWN THE SHOW**

Gallery row is quiet at eight a.m. on a Monday. "Closed" signs won't be flipped to "Come on in" before tomorrow at ten. The other gallery owners must, too, be engaged in some stage of breaking down outgoing shows to make way for the new. The cycle of art, the circle of life.

 _Morose much, Mufasa?_

As my Volvo's rear-end nears the loading dock behind Etcetera, I can't help but reflect on my "before picture." A month ago, I lined up right here to deliver my painstakingly printed, meticulously cropped photos like a new father dropping his children at daycare for the first time—praying he was doing the right thing by exposing his babies to the harsh world outside of their safe nest.

All the trepidation that plagued me those first few days comes rushing back. Does my work belong on the walls of a legitimate art gallery? How will the public receive my work? How will the critics respond? What will my family and friends think of my work? Will Charlie and Renee finally get it? Will any of my models have regrets? Will I? Will my work change course?

I was as anxious as any of my clients flipping through the photo album in my anteroom—and rightfully so. The one prediction that came to pass: nothing would be the same again.

I indulge my meditative mood with a good, long stare at the banner still hanging in the gallery's front window: EMPOWERED BY THE LENS. Beneath the bold, red block lettering is one of the few photos of myself I actually like, a partial headshot of me behind my 35mm lens. The memory of Bella sneaking this picture on her iPhone while I was focused on shooting a particularly challenging sunflower never fails to bring a smile to my face, most likely because of what followed the click of Bella's shutter: her giddy laughter when I discovered her secret; the triumphant expression on her face at having caught the ever-observant photographer off-guard; and the sheer joy of watching the fruit of her labor develop into a picture so good, we knew right away it would become one of our favorites.

"I'd be delighted to speak with the artist about a reprint for you." Victoria's voice draws my gaze to the door she's holding open for me.

"Heh! Good luck getting her to return a phone call."

The smirk on Victoria's face flattens. "Have I done something to upset Bella?"

"What? No!" _Ugh, good job compartmentalizing._ "It's not you, Victoria. It's just that Bella's schedule is nuts right now."

"Ah." She watches me more carefully than I'd like. "I've got a pot of coffee inside."

"Sounds great."

Victoria leads me toward her office, barely slowing down as we pass the wall where my exhibit hung for the last four weeks. Only the hardware remains.

"Wow! That was quick. I thought I was here to help you take down the show."

"I find it's easier for me to handle that part by myself."

"You mean it's easier on the _artist_ ," I say. Her sly smile tells me I've read her correctly. Victoria has proven her expertise at every turn, but her sensitivity continues to impress me.

"How do you take your coffee?" she asks.

"Got an IV drip?"

The only thing stopping Victoria from studying me again is the hot coffee demanding her concentration. She sets the mug down on the "visitor side" of her desk, and I accept the drink along with her unspoken invitation to sit. "How about we start with this and see how it goes."

"Thank you."

"I take it your plate is very full," she says, refilling her mug before relaxing into her desk chair.

"You could say that."

"Oh, Edward. Please don't tell me you're surprised that people are knocking down your door."

I might have predicted the influx of new business, but the volume and variety have blown me away. Eating disorders, war-ravaged bodies, individuals in the throes of gender transition, couples seeking boudoir photos . . . the list of potential clients expands almost daily. If I'm realistic, none of that will end with the show coming down.

"The range is a bit overwhelming, to be honest."

" _Ahh_ , new opportunities to expand your repertoire."

Good thing I've just swallowed, or my huff would have been an ugly spray of coffee. "You are ever the optimist."

Victoria's mug isn't wide enough to hide her grin. "Have I mentioned you were brilliant to include those photos of Bella? If I'd have had any idea what you were hiding behind closed doors, I would have suggested it myself."

"She is pretty spectacular."

"Obviously . . . but you know that's not what I mean."

I do. I meet her gaze, but I can't hold it.

I still can't hear the face-to-face compliments without blushing, but if I'm honest, the written reviews have become my new guilty pleasure. Jonathan Darby's was the first of many glowing critiques, not just from followers of photography but more significantly, from human interest writers. The film-as-empowerment concept isn't uniquely mine, one well-followed blogger pointed out, but my photos "not only stand on their own as stirring truth but reveal a deep empathy that sublimates the artist to his subjects and their journeys." I could have died and gone to photographer heaven right then and there.

I acknowledge her praise with a compliment of my own. "I think we can both agree this show was well curated."

My obvious deflection makes Victoria smile in earnest. "Are you surviving your newfound popularity, or should I be worried about you?"

"I'll be fine. I'm sure this burst of new interest will calm down once the initial wave works its way through."

"You don't really believe that?" She regards me as if trying to decide whether I'm naïve or lying.

I'm not sure which conclusion would be less damning. I seem to collect no-bullshit women in my life, and Victoria has proven once again that she won't hold back.

"I guess I'll figure it out as I go along."

"I have no doubt." Victoria sets down her mug and clasps her hands on the desk between us. "You must be pleased with the exhibit from a purely business perspective."

"I really don't think I'm in the best position to judge that."

"What makes you say that?"

"I have zero background in business."

"You don't need a business degree to understand exactly what business you're in. You make value-based decisions every day: how to spend your time, what kind of inventory to produce, who your ultimate customer is, what kind of profit margin you want. If that's not knowing your business, I don't know what is."

"I don't know anything about comps."

"Of course you do! You told me yourself that nobody else is doing empowerment photography the way you are. You know how much other photographers are making. You know your competition, and you know your niche. You know when and how to make concessions without compromising your values. Next?"

"Share prices are a complete mystery to me," I say, almost cocky about my complete ignorance.

Victoria cracks a smile. "Unless you're planning to go public in the near future, I don't see mastery of the stock market as a necessity."

I've exhausted my arguments, but why let that stop me? "I don't even know what I don't know."

"Ya got me there," Victoria says, anything but convinced. "So, where did all this crapola about comps and stock prices come from all of a sudden?" _Yep, that's Victoria._

The weary sigh that escapes me has been brewing for a while, but I only now realize how much Bella's doubts have rubbed off on me. "Bella's project partner has a way of making the rest of us feel inadequate."

"Edward, I can assure you, there is nothing inadequate about you."

That rush returns, a mix of professional and personal flattery that's all the harder to hear because I know she means every word. "Thanks, but—"

"But _nothing_. You were quite firm with me when I tried to persuade you away from your primary mission."

"Is that your very tactful way of telling me I was a pain in the ass?"

She chuckles. "I'm rarely accused of being tactful."

"I appreciate your directness, and while we're on the subject, I appreciate all your support despite my conditions."

"Your conditions were fine with me, Edward. Successful business people know what they want."

"Okay, okay, I'm a businessman. I give up."

"That's more like it," she says, grinning with her victory. "And now, on a complete different topic—"

"Please!"

"Have you thought about what you're going to do with the framed photos?"

"I'm guessing you have a suggestion?"

"Only for the two of mine. I'd like to buy them from you—for my own personal use, nothing commercial."

"They're yours. They were already yours."

"But the framed image—"

"—Is my gift to you for everything you've done for me and the other models."

I was right about the ripples extending beyond my reach—not that the waves are negative, but they are most definitely out of my control. The kinship that developed among the models is one of those happy, unanticipated consequences, largely the fruit of Victoria's loving labors. It lightens my heart to think about the online "empowerment discussion forum" to be moderated by Bree, especially when I remember the scared, beaten-down woman I met in our initial session. The diversity of personalities and life experiences among the original six models creates a rich, dynamic tapestry, and the plan is to expand the group to include more of my clients. The initial invitation will come from me in complete confidentiality; after that, I am hands off.

I could not be more thrilled that Bella has been welcomed into this sisterhood with loving, open arms though I understand she has done little more than create a profile at this point. Perhaps this is the most striking element of my "after picture" thus far, the sweetest reward for integrating Bella into my professional life: that Bella would find her place among this supportive network of amazing, empowered women.

Victoria dips her head in acknowledgment. "I accept your generous gift. Thank you very much."

"My pleasure." I sip the last of my coffee while it's still warm. "So tell me, Victoria, was the show a success from your vantage point?"

"There was never a question in my mind about that."

"Even though you didn't make a dime in commissions?"

"Well," Victoria said with a grin, "that's not entirely accurate. I may not have sold any of _your_ work, but look at the foot traffic your exhibit brought in."

"Oh yeah?" I made a point of dropping into the gallery twice a week, but my visits never lasted very long. Watching strangers view my work will never be easy for me.

"Sure. And new customers aren't the only bonus. I must've had a dozen photographers contact me in the last few weeks, asking if I'd represent them."

"Wow, that's great."

"Yes, all of that is lovely, for sure. But the best part for me is knowing we did what we set out to do, expand your reach. I mean, who knows, right?"

I shake my head, repeating her line with all the gravity and pregnant possibility of an unforeseeable future. "Who knows?"

She levels me with one of her fidget-inducing stares. "Edward, I'd like to say something that's probably going to embarrass the hell out of you. May I?"

Without conscious thought, my arms fold across my chest—my body's comically ineffective survival instinct hard at work. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to Victoria's brash style, but there's no way I can walk away now without hearing whatever she feels the need to share.

"And just when I'd put the last apple back in my cart . . ." I sigh theatrically. "Okay, shoot, as we photographers like to say."

Victoria chuckles at my lame humor, yet another example of her generosity. "Over the years, I have come to understand myself as a professional voyeur"—my sharp inhale makes her shake her head—"of a very specific type."

"I wasn't aware there were subcategories." A cold sweat threatens to break free. My fight-or-flight is getting a solid workout this morning.

"Each of us will have our own visceral response to any given work of art, and that's valid and important in its own right."

"Yes, of course. Eye of the beholder and all."

"Exactly, _but_ . . . if that's all we see, we're missing out on what the artist is showing us."

The warm, fuzzy sensation of being understood floods my system. _Yes. This._

"What I ask of myself as curator," Victoria says, "is to try to see each work through the eyes of its creator and translate _that_ beauty to the beholders as well. Hence, the context, the framing, bringing the artist into the conversation through wall text and live appearances."

"Clearly, you do that very well."

"I'm not fishing for compliments, but thank you. I have to tell you, Edward, I believe your work, in particular, needed this kind of exposure—or rather, _we_ needed to see at least a small corner of the world through your eyes."

 _Here comes the embarrassing as hell part,_ the rush of heat to my cheeks informs me.

"By showing these works to the public, you've empowered an audience well beyond any past or future subjects of your photos, or even any person who might imagine him- or herself on the opposite side of your lens."

I scoot my prickly self as far back as my chair allows. Victoria smiles gently before uncorking the grand finale.

"Your work is an eloquent invitation to view the world with a generosity we all possess but access all too infrequently: to see courage where there are scars on the surface; to see strength in vulnerability; to see the beautiful soul that inhabits every physical form. You've shared your lens and retrained the viewer's eye—whether for the few moments they're standing in front of your photos or hopefully, for a lifetime—to a new definition of beauty. If a single visitor walked away unchanged, I would be astounded."

I swallow hard over the gigantic lump that just sprang up in my throat. Her words are the headiest compliments yet.

"You're right," I say, chuckling when her eyebrows pop up and disappear beneath her bangs. "You've embarrassed the hell out of me."

We share a cathartic laugh, and I feel my whole body unwind with the release of tension. I might just miss this wild ride named Victoria.

She reaches across her desk and covers my hand with hers. "Thank you for letting me upset your apple cart, Edward. I want you to know I will always be extremely proud to have supported you."

"I can't say how much your confidence in my work means to me. Thank you, Victoria, for everything."

She dips her chin, a bow of sorts. "To be continued."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Been an interesting week of reviews! Love your thoughtful comments and insights and your willingness to engage with the characters and their story, even when they're not behaving as you would behave or like them to behave or predict they might behave! I especially appreciated the side conversations many of you initiated with your questions/concerns/rage *grins* Not gonna lie, got a bit mushy more than once at the many kindnesses shown along the way. You know who you are, and so do I.

A note about reviews: I'll admit, this chapter threw me a bit with the fast and furious response. I ended up taking a bit of a random path this time through your reviews, but I did aim to answer every one, even (especially?) the tough ones. Hit me with a PM if I missed yours.

FYI: To retain what remains of my sanity, I only read guest reviews if they're signed. The rest I delete immediately from my notifications and ignore when they come through a few days later to up my review count ;)

Hugs and kisses to my valiant pre-reader Pa Trizia, who often disagrees with my choices (and Bella's), always tells me her truth, and for some reason sticks with me anyway. ILY and thank you! Ever and always, gratitude to my sweet Chayasara, who adds her heart and eagle eye to every line. Love you girls hard.

 **See you next time?**  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	15. Sharing Tea

**15 SHARING TEA**

I can't remember making a conscious decision to stop at Shelly's house on my way home, but here I am, ringing the bell. I have to tip my hat to intuition. No plotting and planning, no texting first to ask permission, no taking no for an answer. There's a reason instinct has survived the forces of evolution.

Shelly opens the door, confirming what I realized a beat too late: there's almost no way Bella will be home at this hour on a Monday.

"Hello, handsome." The joy in Shelly's expression instantly subtracts ten years from her appearance.

I lean in and kiss her cheek. "Good morning, Shelly."

"Hmm, you're two days too early for our dinner date, so I'm guessing you're here for Bella?"

"I'm sorry I didn't call first. I guess I'm a little revved up and needed to share."

"Oh, fi! You don't need to call first. You're family."

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but Bella's not here. She left for the library before I woke up."

"Of course she did. I don't know what I was thinking."

Shelly tilts her head with an understanding smile. "I know I'm not who you were looking for, but I can put on some tea if you'd like to come in."

I've just finished off half a pot of coffee with Victoria, but refusing Shelly's tea would be even worse form than popping in on her unannounced. A quick glance at my watch tells me I have a few minutes to spare before I need to unload my photos at home and catch the bus for Shady Acres.

"I'd love to. Thanks."

I follow Shelly into the kitchen and take a seat at the island. The countertop is lined with familiar white bakery bags.

"Are those from Orlovs?"

"Yes. Would you be a doll and eat some of this pastry for me?" she says, poking through the bags. "How about one of these dossants?"

"No, thanks. I'm saving myself for meatloaf."

Shelly chuckles as she puts the kettle on. "You know, it's not very gentlemanly of you to leave me here alone with all these goodies."

I know better than to suggest she throw anything away. "Which is why I only bring you flowers when I visit. Come to think of it, why is Bella allowed to shower you with sweets?"

"To be honest, I think it's a guilt offering."

If I've gotten a bad deal, Shelly's got it way worse. This isn't what she signed up for. "It's been rough, huh?"

She reaches for two saucers, then two cups from the cabinet overhead, and I resist the temptation to jump up and pull them down for her. If I've learned anything from Mom's illness, it's that the line between helpfulness and disempowerment can be thin at times. It's a wise man who knows when to keep his ass on the stool.

The rituals of tea service play out before me: napkins folded into crisp rectangles with a spoon set neatly on each, the sugar bowl placed nearby, tea bags set inside each cup with labels draped over the sides. And she's not talking.

"Shelly, I know it's not really my business . . ."

"Oh, please. After all this time, you don't have to beat around the bush with me."

"Are you doing okay without having Bella around as much as she used to be?"

"You're very sweet to worry about me, Edward. It's not ideal, but I can manage for another three weeks. By noon on the sixth, this will all be behind us."

"Bella got the time slot for her presentation?"

"Oh, I figured she would have told you." Shelly masks her surprise but not well. "I just found out yesterday."

Now it's my turn to hide my emotions. Shelly doesn't need to be burdened by whatever is going on between Bella and me.

The sharp whistle of the teakettle demands Shelly's attention, giving me a chance to check my phone. _Nope,_ no message from Bella asking me to save the date. I make a mental note to reschedule my appointments on the sixth—just in case.

Who knows if Bella even wants me there? Maybe I'd just make her nervous—which totally sucks, and not just for me. When I think back to my gallery opening and how much it meant to me to have Bella by my side, I can't help but feel a huge loss for Bella if I can't be there for her.

Shelly fiddles with her teabag while I slide the phone into my jacket pocket. We both take a couple of sips of tea before she asks how I'm faring.

"Honestly, I'm so busy, I don't know which end is up right now."

"So, your show was a roaring success?"

"Basically."

Her proud smile edges up beyond the rim of her teacup. It's sweet. I know Shelly has come to regard Bella as a daughter, but I've always had a different kind of relationship with her—probably due to my age and courtly ways—more gentleman caller than son.

"Good timing, then," she says, "with Bella's project pulling her in the opposite direction."

My huff slips out before I can stop it. "I'm not sure there's ever a good time for that."

"This too shall pass," Shelly says, quoting one of my mother's favorite adages.

I answer with a more emphatic "Amen!" than usual, adding, "I hope when it passes, it takes the man-bun with it."

Shelly's head cocks to one side. "You're not a fan of the hairdo?"

"Why, are _you_?"

 _Oh, Shelly. I thought you had better taste in men._

"I'm an old lady. What do I know?"

"I'll take that as a no. Thank God. You nearly broke my heart."

We exchange knowing grins and sip at our tea. _Enough said—_ until Shelly calls me out. "Is there something wrong with your tea?"

"No, why?"

"You look like you just stuck your nose in a jar of vinegar."

"Oh." _Whoops._

"Edward." I know I'm in trouble when she sets her cup down and folds her hands on the table. "Something tells me this is not about Riley's hair."

"As you said, it's almost over."

"Oh, dear. Is it that bad?"

I can only shrug.

"Well," Shelly says, "he's certainly no _you._ "

"Phew! I would hate to think I've been replaced."

"Fat chance!" A full blush comes across her cheeks, and Shelly quickly adds, "From Bella's perspective, that is."

"I'm relieved to hear it." My sarcasm rises to the surface with an ease that alarms me.

"You're not really worried about Bella falling for Riley?"

I'd be a liar if I said I haven't considered this, especially in the dark corners of my mind when my worries keep me awake. "The guy definitely has some kind of hold over her."

By the surprise on her face, I'd say this is news to Shelly. "What kind of hold?"

The fiercely guarded floodgates fly open; I've been holding back for too long. "I just think Bella has a higher opinion of Riley than he deserves. It makes me angry that he can so easily make her doubt herself. She's worked way too hard to roll over whenever he disagrees with her. Plus, I happen to think he's dead wrong about the bakery, but that's another story entirely."

"Does Bella know how you feel?"

"I attempted to point out that Riley might not know as much as he thinks he knows. It didn't go well."

"I'm sorry, Edward. I really had no idea. I've only spoken with him briefly the few times he's been over." _There's_ an unwelcome thought. "Now that you mention it, he does have a bit of Eddie Haskell in him."

"The thing is, you and I both know that Bella has no problem putting guys like that in their place. She does it every night at work—with a smile on her face, I might add."

"Our Bella is no shrinking violet," Shelly says with an appreciative grin.

"For some reason, she doesn't seem to see it at all. Everything is 'Riley says this; Riley says that.' Like the guy shits gold nuggets or something." Shelly laughs, and I realize how badly I've behaved. "I apologize. That was really vulgar."

"Edward, it's fine. I'm not exactly a shrinking violet myself."

I recalibrate my gaze to see what my camera would have picked up—the inner strength I sometimes underestimate because of Shelly's age and her reliance on Bella. "No, you sure aren't."

"So, your plan is just to wait this out?"

"I don't see where I have much of a choice," I answer. "Anything I say is just going to make her more conflicted about working with Riley . . . and resentful of me."

"I see your point."

"If Bella had any clue how he was staring at her nudes . . _._ " I want to say she'd be furious, but this is the girl who loves her job at Hooters. If I'm honest, I don't truly know how Bella would feel at all, which frustrates me more than anything.

"Oh," Shelly says gently. "Well, it was extremely brave of both of you to share such intimate photos."

A dark chuckle escapes me. "I think Riley may have gotten a little confused about what, exactly, was being shared."

Shelly reaches across the counter and covers my hand with a soft squeeze. "Riley can want what he wants, but he cannot take what is not given."

"Well, _I'm_ certainly not giving him anything!"

A look of genuine concern crosses Shelly's forehead for the first time. "Edward, is everything okay between you and Bella?"

I consider taking the easy route—"Everything is fine"—but the very idea that I'm afraid to tell Shelly the truth scares me more than the truth itself.

"We both have so much going on, we haven't been able to get together much at all. It feels overwhelming to try to stay involved in the details of each other's lives with little messages here and there. Even our phone calls feel rushed. Then, when we _are_ together, I always feel like we're playing catch up. It's frustrating and unsatisfying, and"— I realize now what really bugs the hell out of me—"it seems like we should be better at this."

Shelly's expression takes on the worry I was trying to spare her, and now I feel even worse. "Oh, Edward. It's no wonder you're feeling out of sync. Some couples can go weeks on different continents. You two . . ." She gives her head a shake. "A day apart is an eternity."

"That sounds a little pathetic."

"Really? I think it's sweet that you two enjoy spending time together so much. You've become each other's best friends. What's pathetic about that?"

"I guess I'm not used to feeling so damn needy. It's . . ."

"Scary?" There's a kind smile waiting for me when I meet her gaze.

"My mother used the same word."

Shelly pats my hand, and I let go of a long sigh I feel I've been holding in for weeks.

"You know," she says, "there's a reason they call it _falling_ in love. Everyone tends to focus on the euphoria of the high—and it is pretty wonderful, isn't it?—but there's also a surrender to something none of us can control, which is equally exquisite."

"I get that, and I'm all in. It's just . . . Bella and I have never had to work very hard at staying connected before."

"Perhaps it's not the worst thing in the world to recognize that your relationship needs a little TLC." Her words, delivered as gently as humanly possible, still slice me open.

"Have I been . . . _has Bella said_ I've been neglectful in some way?"

"Of course not, dear. It's not something either of you has done or not done. Life happens. People get busy and distracted; hardships come our way. I don't need to tell you any of this." She gives me a sad smile, a reminder I need to hit the road. "You'll figure it out. I believe in the two of you."

"Thank you, Shelly." My voice breaks over the lump in my throat. "I'm afraid I have to go. Mom needs her routine."

"I bet she'd just love a poppy seed muffin for breakfast tomorrow!"

"Nice try," I say, pulling Shelly out of her chair and into a hug. "Thank you for the tea and the chat."

"Anytime. Tell Esme I'll see her on Thursday for bridge."

"Will do."

"And give Raoul a kiss for me?"

I leave Shelly laughing at her own joke as I bolt out of there. I have just enough time to pull my car into the garage and run inside for my sports coat. I'll have to unload the trunk later, but at least the photographs are safely tucked away for now.

Shelly's words tumble around my brain as I hustle to the bus stop. A raindrop hits my head. I squint up at the sky, which I obviously failed to check before leaving home.

I pick up my pace, but it soon becomes clear that I am going to lose this battle. Even if I beat the shower to the bus stop, I can't make the bus come any faster. Best I can do is cloak myself with my highly-un-waterproof jacket and shake my damn head at myself. _People get busy and distracted . . ._ Indeed.

At least I'll have a good story to share with Bella next time we talk . . . whenever the hell that might be.

The bus rolls up right on time, steam hissing out from under the hot metal on all sides. I climb the first two steps, and reach back to shake the water off my jacket. My hand flies to my hair— _yuck_. Look at me, batting a thousand today! Mom will have a field day ribbing me today.

The driver nods when I flash my pass, and off we go. I've barely caught my breath and started down the center aisle when I realize I've left Mom's flowers on my kitchen counter. Hopefully, the gift shop will have something decent today.

Alternating my hands along the seats so as not to fall on my ass—because that's how this day has turned—I make my way toward the first empty seat. And that's when I see Bella, seated against the window, staring outside and sobbing quietly to herself.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** OMG He FORGOT his umbrella? *hugs Old School*

Sometimes I can't decide which of these women characters is me, but this chapter, I'd definitely be Shelly. That kiss on the cheek would've done me in but good.  
Thank you to all the usual suspects and to you folks sending me pieces of your brain each time. MWAH!  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	16. Riding The Bus

**16 RIDING THE BUS**

"Bella?"

She turns, startled. "Edward?" _Wow,_ she looks so sad and lost. "What are you— _oh, shit_! I can't believe I totally forgot Meatloaf Monday." Fresh tears fall along with mutterings about being the worst girlfriend ever.

"Did you mean to get off at our stop back there?"

"No, I'm not going home." _Oh-kay?_

"Do you mind if I sit with you?" This is me, playing it as cool as possible when the impulse to pull Bella into my arms nearly overpowers me.

"Of course not. Why would you ask me that?"

"I don't know," I answer while sitting gingerly, so as not to make her change her mind. "You looked like you might not want company."

"I _didn't_ —"

Well, _shit_! I half rise, but her arm flies across my lap and pins me to the seat.

"Bella, if you need to be alone—"

"No," she says, "I didn't want to not be with you."

Have I just entered an alternate universe? " _Huh_?"

"You're not the one I'm trying to get away from," she explains, which only ratchets up my anxiety level.

"Bella, slow down. What's happened?"

She meets my eyes, and the tears start to flow again. "I'm sorry. I'm just really upset right now."

"How can I help?"

"You can't. This is something I have to do on my own. That's why I asked Riley not to come."

I feel like I might lose my damn mind if we don't stop going around in circles, but last time I got frustrated and lost control, I just made things worse. "You need to do what, Bella?"

Her lower lip quivers, and she pulls it between her teeth, takes a deep breath, and composes herself. "We've decided to recommend the Orlovs take the offer to sell."

I bite my tongue—hard. This sucks on so many levels. I can't come up with anything that will be even remotely helpful.

"I felt like I should be the one to deliver the news to the family," she says. "Maybe I can soften the blow, you know?"

Apparently, Riley's bull-in-the-china-shop approach has not escaped Bella's notice. "Well, I'm sure they'll appreciate your making a special trip out."

"I don't know about that," Bella says, carrying the weight of the world in her voice. "I really feel like I've failed them."

I cover her hand with mine and slide my fingers into the valleys. "I'm so sorry."

With the saddest sigh I've ever heard, Bella rests her head on my shoulder. "Me, too."

My superpowers need a serious overhaul if the best I can do is sit quietly with Bella, attempting to be sturdy and still while a tornado of alternative solutions spins through my mind. As much as I hate to admit it, I can't solve all her problems, but that doesn't mean I can't be there for her.

My fingertip glides along the edge of Bella's cheek, chasing the hair off her face. "Can I at least come with you for moral support?"

She turns her head and shines wet eyes on me. "Weren't you on your way to visit your mother?"

"She'll understand."

The glimmer of relief in Bella's eyes is more than enough reward for me. "You know what? That would be great. Thank you."

I press my lips to her forehead. "It's settled, then. Let me just give Raoul a quick call." I reach for my phone, taking care not to jostle the girl tucked into my side. I haven't held Bella in days, and her warm body feels like a homecoming.

Raoul picks up on the first ring. "Hello, loverboy."

"Hey. How's Mom today?"

"Dressed to the nines and ready for her lunch date."

"Yeah, about that . . . something's come up, and I won't be able to make it for lunch."

"Is everything okay? It's not like you to cancel last minute."

"Yes, everything is fine, but I need to take care of something important with Bella. Can you let my mother know, please?"

"Are you _trying_ to make me jealous?"

"Not really."

Raoul's rich laughter fills my ear. "Sure, I'll tell her."

"Thank you. I'll check in later."

"Ooh! I'll keep my phone on vibrate."

"Good _bye_ , Raoul."

"Buh-bye, sweetheart," he sing-songs.

I couldn't be happier to see the big grin on Bella's face.

"He is so fresh!"

I give her an exaggerated eyeroll, but I'm grinning too.

"I miss Esme," Bella says. "How is she?"

"She has her good days and bad days, but she's holding up. She's a tough old bird."

"I wish I had a tenth of Esme's strength right now."

I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer. "Bella, you're one of the strongest people I know."

"I don't know about that. I have no idea how I'm going to get through this meeting," she says with a sad sigh. "I just wanted a chance to talk with the Orlovs without feeling . . . erased?"

 _That's my girl._ "Amen to that."

Her head swivels to face me. "Excuse me?"

 _Uh-oh._

"I'm just agreeing with you."

"That I've been erased?"

 _Whoa. Full-on runaway train here . . ._

"Bella, you know I'm on your side, right?"

"My side of what?"

"I don't know. Anything. _Everything_."

Her body goes rigid inside my embrace. She turns away from me and fixes her gaze out the window again. _Shit._

Quiet is my friend, but it's damn near impossible not to throw more logs onto the fire. This is no time to get into anything deep with Bella, not before she has to deliver this terrible news. I'm supposed to be here to help, not agitate her further. I tip my head back against the seat and pray for wisdom and patience.

A firm but shaky voice aimed toward the window says, "It's not too late for you to go to Shady Acres."

My blood runs cold; I can barely breathe. I have no choice but to respond to the back of Bella's head. "Do you _want_ me to go to Shady Acres?"

Silence. A shrug. A sigh. "I don't know," she whispers, breaking my heart in two. She didn't say yes; the door is still open, leaving me another chance.

I scoot closer, wrapping my right hand around her belly and drawing her back against my chest. My lips find the shell of her ear, and I murmur my apology. "I'm sorry I don't seem to know the right thing to say to you anymore."

"If I'm as strong as you claim, why are you treating me like a porcelain doll?"

 _Gulp._ My pulse thunders in my ears. "I was trying not to add to your stress level. Apparently, I have failed."

"It seems like you're always worried I'll fall apart if you happen to say the wrong thing." A pause stretches into an eternity. "That doesn't speak too highly of me."

A million tiny arrows of adrenaline dart in every direction. My body readies for fight or flight; I want neither.

"You're right, Bella. I'm sorry."

She shifts to face me, and my arms fall away. "I really wish you would stop apologizing and just tell me how you really feel."

"To be fair, I did try early on," I remind her gently. "That day you were waiting for me on my stoop? You seemed to think I was attacking you, when all I was trying to say was you should trust your instincts."

"As I recall, you were taking this whole assignment quite personally, as if considering selling the bakery somehow meant I wanted to trade you in for a younger man!"

"I suppose I was feeling a little obsolete."

"Oh, Edward." _God,_ she looks so weary. "I really thought we'd escaped the whole age-difference freak-out."

"'Freak-out' seems like a strong word."

Bella crosses her arms and gives me a no-nonsense glare. "How do you like the word 'insecure'?"

"Not so much." Upon reflection, I add, "But I see your point."

Bella rolls her eyes hard. "See? There you go again being all mature and sexy. This is exactly why you will never be replaced."

Our conversation has taken a definite turn for the better, but this really isn't about me. "Should we get back to me telling you how I feel?"

"Please."

"Okay, here's the deal. Over the last ten weeks, you've put in easily over three hundred hours studying this case from every possible angle—past, present, and future. On top of that, the Orlovs have become family. You know what makes them tick, what they care about, their strengths and weaknesses. Hell, you know the backstory of every pastry down to the last crumb. And yet, you're ready to walk into the bakery and deliver a decision you don't even believe in because some . . ."

Caution takes hold of my tongue, but Bella is not okay with my self-censorship. "Some _what_?"

"Because some _person_ who might have brought a little more on-the-job experience to the table has convinced you his opinion matters more than yours."

"You don't think much of Riley, do you?"

She's nailed me with her tell-me-the-truth look. I'm toast.

"I really don't. And it's not because of that asinine lump on top of his head, either."

Bella's smile is leaking out around the edges. "Are you sure?"

"Quite. It's not even the way he leered at your photos."

" _What_?"

A small part of me feels bad for finally letting this out, but if Bella wants the whole truth, here it comes. "I'm sorry, but it was truly disturbing the way he was studying your body—even if he was just doing it to get a reaction from me."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"What would have been the point? You just would've been creeped out even longer."

"Well, for one thing, I might have been more careful around him."

That gets my eyes wide open, all right. "Care to elaborate?" Even as I ask, I already hope she won't.

"I'm sure whatever you're imagining is way worse than what happened."

"So something did happen!" I guess I'm not the only one who's been hiding things.

Bella huffs. "Can I ask you something, Edward?" She waits for my nod before continuing. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course!"

"Okay, that was your head talking. How about you take a second to think about it, see how your heart feels, and then answer again."

I can't argue there. My response was automatic, a knee-jerk reflex I know I'm supposed to feel. I let Bella's challenge in and take a hard look inside my heart.

 _Am I jealous of Riley?_ Hell yes! I envy the number of Bella's waking, non-working hours he's shared with her over the past three months.

 _Am I surprised the fucker made a pass at her?_ Not even a little.

 _Do I honestly believe he has a shot with Bella?_ No, not once she knows the shallow basin of his soul.

 _Do I trust Bella?_

Long term, absolutely. She can't _not_ see that we're perfect for each other: that we bring out the best in each other; that I will always be her most loyal advocate and her most honest partner; that we share the same values and wish for the same bright future together; that fireworks still fly every time we kiss, and I still make her laugh; that we respect and _like_ each other; that she will say yes when I ask her to be my wife.

Short term, in the moment? _Sigh._ Sleep-deprived and enthralled by Riley's youth and chiseled features, not to mention the guy's persistence and complete disregard for boundaries? Who's to say it couldn't happen—a touch, a gaze, _God forbid,_ a kiss! _Cripes_ , where's my mental lens cap when I need it?

Okay, so what if he did . . . or she did . . . or _they_ did . . . _something_? As much as I am a masochistic sonofabitch, the only visual I can conjure up next is Bella giving Riley a hard shove. There's no _want._ There's no _need._ There's none of what she reserves for me. Did she not just tell me I would never be replaced?

Bella awaits my answer patiently, eyebrows cocked, not appearing particularly anxious. She already knows the verdict, already deserves my complete trust.

Which kind of makes me the jealous ass in this story.

"Of course I trust you, Bella."

"Good answer . . . and I believe you."

"Now that we've established that, would you like to tell me what happened?"

"Honestly? Nothing that doesn't happen several times a night at work. Just that dumb caveman shit some guys pull because they figure they have nothing to lose and everything to gain—the 'come on' eyes, the inappropriate proposition, the moving in too close for comfort."

"Men!" My outburst is so thick with disgust for mankind in general and Riley specifically, it makes Bella laugh.

"You know none of that bothers me at Hooters; it's just a part of my job. I guess I was hoping to be viewed differently by my classmates. My bad."

"No, Bella, _his_ bad. Just because you're an attractive woman doesn't mean you welcome that kind of attention. That crosses the line! Plus, Riley damn well knows we're together. What the hell's the matter with him?"

"I guess he figured he'd woo me away from you with his hipster ways and vast knowledge of the business world." Her sarcastic smirk brings a smile to my face.

"Hmm, how's that working for him?"

"I wasn't impressed," she says, leaning in tantalizingly close to my lips, "but then, my bar is very, very high."

"As well it should be." My smile widens as our lips meet, finally.

I'd hardly label what just happened a fight, but I'm beginning to appreciate the appeal of make-up sex. Our kiss tastes all the sweeter, knowing we've weathered a storm together. I open my arms, and Bella climbs inside with a sweet sigh.

"God, I've missed this," I murmur into her hair.

She snickers gently against my chest. "Riding the bus?"

"Yes. All of it."

Her fingers burrow between my shirt buttons and tickle at my chest. "Edward?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are you soaked?" She lifts her head and grins at me. "Don't tell me you forgot your umbrella! _You?_ "

"I was in a hurry to catch the bus."

"Mr. Planful?" Her ribbing feels like us again.

"I made an unexpected detour on my way home from the gallery. Victoria and I took down the show this morning."

"Oh, right! I haven't even asked you how that went. God, I'm a mess."

"Yes, but you're _my_ mess."

She rolls her eyes, which I kind of deserve. "So? What did Victoria have to say?"

"Oh, you know . . . she filled my head with a lot of happy hooey."

"Happy hooey, huh?" I can see the pride glowing in Bella's eyes, and now I know exactly what I was looking for when I stopped at Shelly's earlier. "I'm going to need to hear more about that."

"I was feeling so damn good, I drove straight to your house to share my buzz with you."

"Aww, that's sweet. Let me guess," Bella says, playing along, "Mrs. Cope invited you in for tea?"

"Of course."

"And you, being the suave and debonair man you are, naturally stayed."

"Obviously."

Bella giggles. "That was a dangerous move when you had a bus to catch."

"Probably, but the universe rewarded me. I wouldn't have run into you otherwise."

"I'm sure Mrs. Cope appreciated the company."

"Honestly, I think the poor woman just wanted me to help her eat her way out from under that mountain of pastries on her counter!"

"Ugh, speaking of pastries . . ." Bella wriggles out of my arms, leaving all the lightness and cheer behind. "We're almost there."

Right before my eyes, Bella climbs back into her separate silo. I'm tempted to hold her hand, but I can support her best right now by letting her rely on her own strength and courage.

"Don't forget, Bella, nothing is set in stone."

"I know," she answers, steeling herself with a deep breath.

"If it's still okay, I'd really like to come with you. I promise I won't get in your way."

"You might as well make yourself useful." She reaches under the seat and produces her umbrella, the very same one I gave her the first day we met.

"I'm pretty sure I can handle that."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**  
Awww. There's a pretty sweet GIF from the Ryan Gosling/Michelle Williams movie "Blue Valentine" I posted on FB if you want a visual to go with this scene.

Special thanks to Pat and Chaya for helping me finesse all the feelings in this one!  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	17. Meeting The Orlovs

**17 MEETING THE ORLOVS**

My old friend, pounding rain, gives me an excuse to tuck Bella close to my side. Holding our umbrella over both of us, I follow Bella's lead around the block even when her steps slow to a snail's pace.

"Bella?" My soft voice draws her gaze to mine. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"No," she answers, "but I don't feel like I have a choice."

I squeeze her a little bit closer and offer the only advice that makes any sense to me right now. "Trust yourself, Bella. These people trust you. _I_ trust you."

She puts on a brave smile as she steps off the sidewalk onto a short asphalt walk. I'm so stunned when I see the Orlovs' sign hanging over a nondescript exterior that could just as easily house a dry cleaner as a bakery, I nearly forget my manners. I catch myself just in time to open the door for Bella and follow her inside.

I'm pleased to note the interior more closely matches my impression of the shop—warm, cozy, charming in every way. And the exotic scents pumping out of the ovens have my stomach rumbling for delicacies I haven't even heard of before. I park our wet umbrella in the corner. At 11:45, business is slower than it should be, I'm sure.

"Come meet Irina and Sasha," Bella says, waving to the two women behind the bakery case, who seem surprised to see her—and even more surprised to see me. Well, of course! They've only ever seen her in here with the hotshot partner. I look a little old to be one of Bella's undergraduate classmates, especially considering Bella's already about six years behind the curve.

"I bet they think I'm one of your professors," I murmur to Bella.

Bella smirks and glances at my Shady Acres outfit. "You have to admit, you do kind of look the part."

I play along as she leads me across the room. Whatever relaxes Bella works for me.

"Bella! We weren't expecting to see you today," the older woman says, eyes darting between Bella and me. "Hello. You must be Edward." She giggles at my surprised response, extends her hand, and adds, "I'm Irina, and this is my daughter, Sasha."

I glance back at Bella, who is now looking a bit sheepish. "I might have mentioned you once or twice," she confesses.

I cannot contain my grin as I take Irina's hand. "Pleasure to meet you both. And thanks for the five pounds I've gained since Bella met you all!"

"There's plenty more where that came from," Irina says with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Sasha, grab a couple of _syrniki_ for our guests."

"Sure," she says cheerfully before reaching inside the display case and emerging with two flat, golden brown discs.

My mouth starts to water the second the rich, sweet, cheesy aroma hits me. Obviously a skilled torturess in another life, Sasha painstakingly arranges two pancakes onto a white plate, then artfully dusts powdered sugar over each one. Just when I'm sure she's about to present them to us, Sasha crouches out of sight. I peer over the counter to watch her spoon a thick red jam into a little metal cup. Sasha pretends not to notice my watching her every move, and I pretend to be a patient man. Neither of us is good at this game, but I break first.

"I don't have any idea what a _syrniki_ is, but if I don't get some of that in my mouth in the next three seconds, I cannot be held responsible for my actions."

Bella lets out a groan that nearly takes my attention from the pastry. "Can you please not scare the girl, Edward?"

Sasha giggles and thankfully finishes fiddling with the decoration and presents me, finally, with the plate. Only my impeccable manners keep me from shoving the whole pancake inside my mouth at once, and I even manage to choke out, "Ladies first," and kind of mean it.

Bella makes good and sure I'm watching before she dunks the _syrniki_ into the jam and sets it onto her tongue. The girl knows how to tease. I can only assume she has already tasted this delicacy before, considering her failure to moan loudly—as I do when I follow suit and take my first barely-polite bite.

Sasha gives me a crash course in _syrnikis_ , answering my questions about the ingredients (what the heck is _quark_?) and how to tell when the strawberry dip she calls _varenye_ is finished steeping.

"Why have I never heard of this dish before?" I ask as soon as I've licked the last puff of powdered sugar off my fingertips.

Sasha's spirit falls a bit, and Irina states the obvious. "There aren't a lot of bakeries in San Francisco serving Russian delicacies."

"Well, there should be."

Bella clears her throat and shoots me a warning glare I'd be a fool to ignore.

"Sorry, that was meant to be a compliment," I say, attempting to make light of my clumsy toe-stomping. "You know, maybe I should find myself a quiet little corner and try to get some work done while—"

"Ahh! I _am_ hearing Isabella!" All heads turn toward the gray-haired baker who must be the infamous Pop-Pop. Bella meets him halfway and accepts a kiss on each cheek. Up close, I can see the light and determination in his eyes. "To what do we owe this pleasure?" he asks in a thick Russian accent.

"I, uh . . . came by to, uh . . ."

The urge to "save" Bella is primal—and I know I must not.

During the uncomfortable pause, Pop-Pop's gaze wanders over to me. His face registers surprise. "Isabella works with you now?"

 _I wish._

"Oh, no, uh . . . This is my . . . Edward is my boyfriend."

"Ohhh." Pop-Pop's eyes grow large with understanding, then dim with disappointment. "Big shot with _ponchik_ on head, he is still coming here?"

" _Ponchik_?" I'm already grinning, but when Sasha points to the donut holes in the case, a loud guffaw bursts out of me. I can't possibly apologize without coming off completely insincere. Fortunately, Bella is distracted.

"Yes," she answers, "Riley is still my partner." The defensive tone I might have expected from Bella is nowhere to be found, and for that, I am ever fucking grateful.

"Oh." Pop-Pop's head shakes sadly, but he recovers quickly, wipes his hands on his apron, and extends a hand to me. "Please excuse flour. Very nice meeting you, Edvard."

"And you, sir. I've heard so much about this bakery and your beautiful family."

Pop-Pop gazes proudly at his daughter and granddaughter. "Sweeter than cupcake, my angels." Irina shoots Sasha a smirk, making her daughter blush.

Pop-Pop slips one arm behind Bella and the other behind me and eases us toward the glass case. "Speak of cupcake, you will have, da?"

"We're good," Bella answers. "We just had a bite."

I lean across Pop-Pop to scold her. "Speak for yourself, young lady. My belly was ready for meatloaf, lest you forget."

The old man laughs. "I am needing more customers like this one. Come! Leave skinny bird to talk with girls."

My skinny bird rolls her eyes at me. I give her one of my patented you-love-me grins, and she walks away chuckling.

"Can you explain to me, meatloaf?"

"You mean, how it's made?" I ask.

" _Nyet_. _Why_ are you eating this?"

" _Ah_ ," I answer, barely containing my grin. "The meatloaf is really more of an excuse to visit my mother. She's getting on in years, and it makes her happy to provide me with a good meal even if she can't be the one to cook it for me anymore."

"I understand," he answers. "You are eating meatloaf to make your _mamochka_ happy."

"I guess you could say that, but it's not entirely altruistic. I do like meatloaf. A lot."

When he laughs, I can see how the years have worn the man down, how he must have laughed quite a bit before eking out a living became so tough. A comfortable companionship settles over us. I can see why Bella feels a part of the Orlovs' family.

Pop-Pop makes a point of describing the items in the display case as if each is a beloved family member I am meeting for the first time. His stories mesmerize. Before long, I feel as if we're standing in the middle of the village square where he grew up.

"Right! Bella told me about these blintzes. Your wife's grandmother's recipe, right?"

Pop-Pop's smile says it all. "Isabella is sweet girl."

I sing Bella's praises as he retrieves two blintzes from the refrigerated section and places them in the oven. Pop-Pop sets his gnarled hand on my shoulder and draws me close.

"I think Isabella is not having good news for us."

I am so not having this conversation. Thankfully, it's not hard for me to play dumb when I know so little about Riley's plan. "I really couldn't say . . ."

"Is not her fault." Pop-Pop stares gravely at me until I nod that I understand.

The blintzes call him to the oven. While he busies himself arranging the dish into a work of art, I sneak a glance at Bella. The women are all smiles and giggles. There is no way she's delivered the harsh verdict.

Pop-Pop presents me with the plate and a fork. "Baba Liliya's blintzes."

"Wow. They're gorgeous."

His leathery cheeks soften into a smile I need to capture on film. " _Yest, yest_!" he insists, pushing the plate toward my chest. I don't need to be asked twice to eat—in any language.

Pop-Pop watches my every move as I bring the first bite to my mouth. The soft, eggy crepe gives way to a sweet cheese filling. An embarrassing moan leaves my lips, and Pop-Pop claps his hands together with delight. "You like, _da_?"

" _Da_. Very much _da_."

Pop-Pop laughs out loud. "You are surprised?"

"No, not that the blintzes are delicious . . ." His eyebrows lift, waiting. _Shit._ "Just that . . . your whole case isn't filled with blintzes and _syrniki_ and _ponchiks_."

" _Ponchiki_ ," Pop-Pop says with a gentle chuckle, then pantomimes bringing a fork to his mouth. " _Yest_!"

I happily indulge him, loading my cheeks with the next bite. Just when I start to think I'm off the hook, Pop-Pop drops the bombshell.

"Please to say more."

Bella is deep in conversation when she happens to look up and catch my eye. I quickly slice another bite off the blintz and do my best to appear innocent. Before the fork hits my lips, Bella is at my side.

"So . . . what's happening here?"

"Baba Liliya's blintzes, that's what." I turn the fork toward her mouth. Bella presses her lips together tightly and shakes her head. "You don't know what you're _miss_ -ing," I croon.

"That's exactly why I came over." She nails me with a knowing look, and I am toast. "What am I missing, _Edvard_?"

My life would be so much easier if I could only lie convincingly. Absent any talent in that area, I adopt an air of nonchalance. "I was just telling Pop-Pop that, considering how delicious his Russian delicacies are, I am surprised they don't account for a bigger share of his menu."

She folds her arms across her chest. I can't read her expression, but I certainly wouldn't describe it as gleeful. Irina wanders over to listen in while Sasha greets a customer. I carve another morsel of blintz, praying I can get through this conversation without landing myself in the doghouse again.

Pop-Pop shakes his head. "My customers looking for bread and muffin and"—his hand spirals toward the ceiling—" _dossant_. Not coming in for _ponchiki_."

"Well, maybe that's because the exterior—" _Whoops._

This time, it's Bella who insists I finish my thought. "Oh, go ahead, Edward. What have we got to lose?"

 _So much_ , but I've gone too far to stop now. I take one more quick bite before setting down the plate in case I need my hands free to defend myself from flying daggers.

"I guess I had pictured that village square you just described to me, Pop-Pop." I pause while he lifts his eyes to picture it, too—or possibly to travel back in time and place. Hoping to avert a serious train wreck, I throw myself onto the tracks. "You'll have to forgive me; I'm afraid I'm a bit of a romantic. I've probably visited one too many vineyards."

"Too much romantic for big boss at Fish and Loaves," Pop-Pop says with a sniff. "Not for Orlov." His voice sounds small and faraway as if mourning a lost love all over again.

Bella must see the confusion on my face. "Fish and Loaves is the corporation that has tendered an offer—"

"To put Orlovs' out of business!" Pop-Pop explodes in a burst of uncharacteristic fury.

"Riley thinks it's a good deal," she adds sadly.

"I see."

Irina takes her father's hand in hers, jiggling them gently until she gets him to smile. "When my parents arrived in America, money was tight. They'd used up most of their savings on passage. Family members and friends who'd come over before them pooled their resources and their crafts. That's what we do." Pop-Pop nods as his daughter recounts the lore he must have shared over and over through the years. "The space turned out to be everything Mama and Pop-Pop had dreamed of. Everything was going as planned— _better_ , even—and, well, along came a new baby."

Bella gets a little misty-eyed, but I hold my ground.

"Money was not much," Pop-Pop chimes in, "but we were happy family. Living American dream."

Irina and her father share such a tender look, it makes my heart ache for what I know comes next.

Irina sighs before continuing. "Not long after I was born, Mama fell ill. They used the last of their funds to get her the best possible care. There just wasn't anything left to redo the storefront after that."

"I try and I try." Pop-Pop beats a fist over his heart. "Important thing is inside"—he stretches his arms wide to take in the interior space—" _nyet_?"

 _Apparently nyet._

The blintzes plummet to the bottom of my stomach. Sadness rolls off Bella in waves, and she's certainly not alone. I can almost see the gears turning in her head, measuring the chasm between what is and what could have been.

"Some customers coming here for _vatrushkas_ , but most people wanting something every baker can make. I try having little bit everything, keeping customers happy. I cannot make money this way."

"No," Bella agrees quietly. "Trying to be all things to all people is no way to run a successful business."

"I wish . . ." Pop-Pop starts, then fades away.

"Wish what, _Papochka_?"

He cups Irina's chin. "Your _mat_ had beautiful dreams of Russian shop in America. And now, we are being . . . nothing special." Pop-Pop sighs, his gaze finding Sasha. "At least Sasha will have easier life."

Bella's eyes widen. "No!"

All heads turn to Bella, whose hands are balled into fists against her sides.

"No?" I repeat, beseeching her with every muscle in my body to be careful what she says. False hope is the worst kind of harm to inflict.

"I cannot let this happen! You can't sell out!"

"Um . . . Bella? Are you sure you—"

She barrels over my objections as if she can't hear me. "Have you ever even given your dream a real shot— _all the way_ , not just halfway?"

Confusion crinkles Pop-Pop's forehead, and Bella turns to Irina. "What if you commit one hundred percent to the village bakery idea? Give up the bread and cupcakes and the _dossants;_ fill your cases with blintzes and _vatrushkas_ and _ponchiki_ and _syrniki_ and . . . and redo the exterior so people know what's happening in here, how special this place is."

Irina jumps in. "Bella, that's a lovely idea, but what if we can't bring in enough customers who want our hometown dishes?"

"But it's not just about the food." I'm as surprised as anyone to hear my own voice enter the conversation after I've vowed repeatedly to stay out of it. It's too late; all eyes are on me. "Okay, look, I'm no expert on the business end, but I'll tell you what; there's something inside these walls that is very, very special. There's family history, stories, recipes handed down through generations. There's a rhythm and a language and a flavor you can't just wander down the street and find somewhere else. You're not just selling baked goods; you're giving people a break from their lives, a chance to step into a simpler time before Waze and texting and sterile, corporate sameness."

A very fine speech if I do say so myself.

"Not to be a wet blanket," Irina says, "but where are we supposed to get the money for that kind of a facelift? No bank is going to make a renovation loan to a struggling mom-and-pop shop. Believe me; we've tried." Pop-Pop confirms this with a sad shake of his head. "And even if we could secure a loan, the interest payments would cripple us. We just don't have that kind of profit margin, especially with the rent increase our landlord slapped us with at the beginning of the year."

"What about _not_ a loan?" Bella suggests.

"I'm sorry, are you saying there's a bank that will gift us with bags of money and ask nothing in return?"

"Not a bank. Your customers, other local merchants, your family members and friends . . . anyone interested in keeping a local neighborhood gem alive."

"Do you really think people will donate their hard-earned money just to keep us going?"

"If they see the value they're getting for their money."

"Which is . . .?" Irina asks.

"Nothing less than the soul of their neighborhood," Bella says. "San Francisco has always been a gateway city for immigrants; your family's rich history has to resonate with other people who don't want their neighborhood to turn into the next anonymous strip mall."

Pop-Pop nods vehemently, his expression reflecting all the anguish Bella has just articulated, and yet, there's an element of relief there, too. As if finally, someone appreciates the gravity of his plight.

Irina exhales slowly. The conflict is written all over her face; she wants to believe in Bella, but this will not be an easy or safe path to choose. There's a reason they've diversified and worked so hard not to alienate any part of their customer base.

"Look, I get that what I'm suggesting is a huge risk," Bella says. "That buyout offer looks mighty tempting, and retirement has to be a highly appealing prospect." Pop-Pop answers with a weary sigh. Bella steps forward and clasps Irina's and her father's joined hands. "Pop-Pop, are you ready to give up on that dream once and for all?"

I feel for the old man. I know what he's up against, those warm, brown eyes bearing down into the depths of his soul. Been there myself a time or two.

"I need take care of family . . ." Pop-Pop blinks back tears, catches his lip between his teeth. "How I can give up Orlovs'?"

" _Papochka,"_ Irina whispers, reaching on tiptoes to place a soft kiss on her father's cheek.

Bella matches their somber tone, but the confidence in her voice builds with every word. "In my heart, this feels like the right solution. Clearly, feelings aren't enough, and it would be horribly irresponsible of me to even consider recommending this without crunching the numbers. We'll need some construction estimates. Assuming the numbers fall into line, it's a matter of rebranding and getting the word out. And I need to talk to Riley, obviously."

Pop-Pop's unvarnished distaste at the mention of _ponchik_ -head's name makes me smile. Boy, would I love to be a fly on that wall when Bella informs Riley about the change in plans!

A tiny ray of hope sneaks up on Irina. "You really believe you can make this happen."

"I did get an A in Marketing. What can I say?" Bella's smile radiates a pride I have not seen in weeks—and certainly not in conjunction with her classes. "It's all about sharing your story."

"Maybe I can help?" Enough sitting on the sidelines for me.

Bella turns, open and eager to hear what I might offer. I have to admit, it feels pretty damn good after all we've been through lately. "What did you have in mind?"

"I've been known to take a photo or two." Bella's grateful smile urges me on. "What if we created an online photo essay? If you have any pictures lying around of your village, any long-lost relatives, I can incorporate those as well."

Pop-Pop cracks a smile, his first in a while. "I have."

"Thank you," Bella mouths.

"Clark Kent, at your service." I tip my imaginary hat at my Lois.

"So there it is, I guess," Bella says, spinning back to Pop-Pop and Irina. "Looks like we all have some serious work ahead of us. We'll need a rough design proposal we can send out for estimates; I need to research funding vehicles; Edward can start organizing photos; and you all need to do some hard thinking about whether this is what you really want."

"Is not hard," Pop-Pop says, his expression filled with hope and joy. "We are always wanting this." Irina echoes his sentiment with a misty nod, chin quivering. She looks like she wants to speak but doesn't trust herself not to start blubbering. Can't say I blame her.

"Okay, then!" Bella releases their clasped hands with a deep exhale. "If you'll excuse me . . ."

She's already bounding toward me when Irina giggles and says, "Of course."

Bella hits me at a dead run and nearly knocks us both to the floor. While I stagger and fumble to keep us upright, she throws her arms around my neck and kisses the hell out of me—tongue and all. As if Bella needed any added sweetness, she still tastes like strawberries and _syrniki_ , and the combination makes my head spin. I only fully appreciate just how hungry I've been when Bella gives me everything I've been starved for. Well _,_ not _everything_.

Pop-Pop's rich laughter draws me out of my just-about-to-get-naughty thoughts and back to the middle of the bakery floor where not just Pop-Pop and Irina's eyes are on us, but Sasha's and her three customers' as well. I mumble a "Sorry" I don't really mean, causing the crowd to erupt into laughter. Bella lets me draw her into my side, and I am the happiest I've been in months.

"Well, I guess our work here is done," I say with a huge grin I cannot possibly contain.

"Thank you both for bringing light to our shop again," Irina says. "It's been a long time since I've heard Pop-Pop laugh like that."

"I get it," I answer, sobering up a bit.

Pop-Pop catches my meandering thoughts. "You will be seeing your _mama_ soon, I hope?" he asks.

"I will. I've promised to be there for dinner. Perhaps I can even persuade my girl to join me this time . . .?"

"Couldn't keep me away," Bella answers, finding my hand and weaving her fingers around mine.

"Please, I may give you _sushki_ to take to the lady who is making such a good son?"

"I'm sure she'd love that, thank you."

Irina scurries away to fill one of the familiar white bags with more treats than my mother could eat in a week, never mind her special diet. Pop-Pop presses the bag into my hands, and I thank him profusely. Raoul will love them, I'm sure.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Ah, there's light in the bakery and in our couple's hearts. Look who's going for dinner together at Shady Acres! Hope they save Edward some meatloaf! Sigh.

MANY thanks to Patrizia and Chaya for helping me finesse this tricky little chapter, meaning long chats back and forth resulting in tweaks both large and small and an awful case of carpal tunnel and probably bursitis for my amazing pre-reader, I'm sad to report. Talk about sacrifices made in the name of "art"! I also had some fascinating discussions with dual language speakers (and experienced writers) about how Pop-Pop's broken English would sound after 45 years in America.  
 **xxx ~BOH**

P.S. - A special hello *wink* to my guest reviewers who say they've "quit" me for the last, oh, 15 chapters. _Heh_.


	18. Make-Up Sex

**18 MAKE-UP SEX**

The bus ride home is a make-out fest, the pull so much deeper than the taste of lingering sugar on Bella's tongue. There is a lightness we haven't shared in weeks, two hearts relieved of their heavy burdens, two spirits reconnected. "Us" again—but so much better for having to find our way back.

The rain has let up. We walk hand-in-hand from the bus stop. There is never a question Bella will come home with me. A flood of emotion courses through me, but it'll have to wait. We have later for all the words.

A cliché version of make-up sex could have happened against my foyer wall or on the living room floor—wild, passionate, even a little angry. I can see the appeal, but it's not the mood I'm in right now.

Instead, we pass straight through to my bedroom, a taciturn agreement to regain the intimacy we have lost. I undress Bella with trembling fingers, more nervous than our first time. Bella's body, as familiar to me as my own, now feels like a foreign land waiting to be discovered. Naked at last, we touch, the exquisite brush of skin to skin, her nipples firm against my chest, the soft mounds of her breasts almost too delicate to bear.

My mouth is first to wander from our slow kiss. I nibble along her jaw, tracing a ticklish line to the tender spot behind her ear. Urged on by her sigh, I trail soft kisses down her neck, where I get lost in the sweet flesh of her throat. My enthusiasm is contagious; Bella drops her head back with a breathy moan that goes straight to my groin. I am so ready for this, but I don't want to rush our blissful reunion.

My Bella, however, has other ideas, it seems. Her hands glide down my back, grab my ass, and squeeze. She tugs my hips into hers and answers my grunt with one of her own.

Her lips find my ear. "Please," she whispers urgently, then licks my earlobe to seal the deal.

We push-pull each other to the foot of the bed. I drop her as gently as possible before stretching out on top of her. She runs her palms up my arms, down my chest. Her gaze darkens as she skims down my abdomen . . . meeting my erection with a teasing stroke.

I pinch my eyes shut at the rush of pleasure, then force them open so I can watch her watching me. She wraps her hand around me, plays with my balls . . . I can't keep track. Every sensation coils into a singular impulse: _need._

Her nipples demand my attention. I drop my head and capture one of the tight knots between my teeth, drawing a moan. My focus falters.

 _Want._

I lift my head to take in the view; she trembles under my gaze. My cock twitches against the smooth skin of her thigh. I kiss my way down her belly, swirl my tongue in her navel. She squirms deliciously, tempting me lower, lower . . .

My nose meets a patch of hair. I've always loved the way Bella trims—normally leaving a tight, neat triangle—but there's something wildly arousing about this out-of-control tangle of dark hair guarding her entrance.

"God, Bella . . ."

Her thighs fall open, total surrender.

Something inside me snaps. I can't hold back, cannot resist devouring her. I lift her hips, tug her closer, press open-mouthed kisses on her soft pink flesh. Her musk coats my tongue, and I pull her heady scent into my lungs.

I slip a finger inside her. She starts riding me, pumping her hips and jamming her sweet pussy against my face. She's so fucking wet, so turned on. I brush the pad of my thumb over her clit. She squeals and digs her nails into my shoulders.

"Don't stop! _Please_!" she hisses.

If she keeps this up, I might come before she does.

I lap at her clit with maddeningly light strokes. She bucks her hips like a wild bronco trying to throw its rider, and I have to smile because really, that wouldn't help her at all. My girl is at her breaking point. I press my tongue against her clit, and she goes off like a firecracker in spasms of pleasure.

I clamp down on her hips while her orgasm plows through her. The noises flying out of her mouth barely sound human. Maybe it's been too long since the last time I pleased her so thoroughly, but I can't remember ever hearing Bella get so raw and primal. The caveman in me is wide awake and ready for action.

I scramble onto my knees and line up at her entrance. She turns her drowsy, sated smile at me and giggles.

"Oh, are you still here?"

"Mmhmm," I answer, scooting forward so she knows I mean business.

"Okay, fine," she teases. I'm not sure if it's mercy or gratitude that opens her legs around me, but once I push inside her, Bella's teasing smile disappears. She's right there with me in a fog of desire.

The first, careful thrust is a long-awaited homecoming . . . but it's not nearly enough. Not after all we've been through, how absent we've been from each other's lives. Bella feels it too. I can tell by the way she rocks her hips, crashing and grinding against my pelvis. She digs her ankles into my ass, swallowing me deeper inside—as if anything less than consuming me just won't be enough.

Greed kicks in. Polite behavior yields to some ancient imperative to possess every inch of her body, inside and out. My body is a jackhammer, operated by some force that won't be satisfied until I have filled her so completely, she doesn't have room for anything or anyone else.

My orgasm sneaks up on me, hard and fast. I don't even have time to warn Bella before I dive headfirst over the cliff and flip, end over end, to the bottom.

I'm still dizzy when I crack one eye open to the sight of Bella flopped like a rag doll against the silver duvet. I drop a kiss on her knee, still too tired to move or speak.

She grins up at me. "Ready to go again?"

"Heh! I would so love to call your bluff, but I think it might actually kill me." My thighs quiver as I pull out, proving my point. "That was . . ." I shake my head and laugh. "What the hell _was_ that?"

"I'm pretty sure that was make-up sex," she says. She reaches for the towel in her nightstand, wipes herself clean, and passes it to me. With a giant yawn and both hands stretched over her head, she adds, "Mmm, damn good make-up sex."

The compliment doesn't escape me, but it probably wasn't her main point. I towel off, then collapse next to her. My hand finds its way to her breast. "Does that mean we were fighting?"

She lazily turns her head to meet my gaze. "How could I ever fight with you?"

I arch my eyebrows. She slides her gaze to the ceiling.

"I guess," she starts quietly, "after the whole empowerment shoot and everything you've said about my strength, it really hurt that you saw me as this weakling who basically let another person control my mind."

My hand stills on her breast. "Bella . . . you're twisting my words. I never said anything about mind control."

She continues staring at the ceiling. "You know, it's not a sign of weakness to listen to people who know more than you do."

"I agree _totally,_ but Riley _doesn't_ know more than you! That's my whole point. Your ideas are every bit as good as his—better even."

"Well, I didn't know that at first."

"Which is why I tried to tell you. But for reasons I still don't understand, you chose to disregard my opinions."

"You're biased," she says.

Yes, it would be difficult to argue my objectivity when I've got her nipple between my fingers. "Of _course_ I'm biased. I love you! That doesn't mean I can't see your strengths."

"Maybe not, but it does make it a little harder for me to believe you."

"I'm sorry, but it's totally messed up that you would believe that . . . _predator_ over me."

"Oh come on, Edward. Haven't you ever gotten negative feedback about your photography?"

"Of course."

"And how many positive words does it take to drown out that voice in the back of your head that believes that person may have had a point?" Bella doesn't wait for a verbal reply, but I'm sure she can see she's hit her mark. "You'd have to be superhuman not to be affected."

"Hey! Did you just revoke my Umbrella Man status?" I give her breast a friendly jiggle to lighten the mood, and she glances over to find me smirking at her.

"Maybe I'm the one who doesn't live up to my part of the deal." She flips onto her side. Sadly, my hand falls away from her breast. "I don't think Lois Lane would let a twerp like Riley tear down her confidence."

"Oh, I don't know. Even Lois has her vulnerable moments. If you wanna know the truth," I pause as she blinks up at me, "I think it's kinda sexy."

A big clump of hair falls loose over the left side of her face. I reach in and tuck it away behind her ear. Our conversation may have sapped some of the post-coital bliss from her cheeks, but Bella is still stunning.

"Hmm, I think you've gone too long without sex," she says, "before this afternoon, I mean."

"No argument here!"

She rolls her eyes and flops back onto the bed with a loud groan. I roll right on top of her, pinning her underneath my body.

"In all seriousness, Bella, can we agree to not ever get to that point again? And I'm not talking about the sex." It's Bella's turn to cock an eyebrow. "Fine. I'm not _just_ talking about the sex. This is important."

"I'm sorry," she says, reaching up to wrap her arms around my neck. "I know I don't handle stress very well. It's probably why I didn't make it through school the first time."

"But you have _me_ now. I am your secret weapon."

She gives a sidelong glance between my legs. "It's not such a secret, that thing."

"Go on and joke, if you must, as long as you hear me. I am here for you, Bella."

"I know that," she says, stroking her fingers along my cheek. "I guess I just . . . lost my way for a while there."

"And you don't ever have to feel that way again. Whatever you need, I'm your guy. To tell you horrible jokes or give you a massage or cook you a big brain-food meal or be your sounding board for wild ideas you don't feel comfortable sharing with anyone else. I will believe in you when you forget to believe in yourself. You don't have to face anything alone. All you have to do is remember that."

"I know," she whispers, "and I promise I won't ever take you for granted again."

"Sure you will."

"Huh?"

"I want you to." I brush my thumb across her lips, and she waits for me to explain. "If we're being honest here, part of me loves that you didn't worry about _us_ with everything else you were dealing with. I don't wish to relive the anguish of the last three months, but in retrospect, knowing that you felt safe that I would be right here for you when this was all over . . . that actually speaks volumes about what we have together."

Bella shakes her head and chuckles softly. "Wow. I don't think most guys would appreciate being taken for granted."

"Perhaps, I should reframe that," I answer with a gentle huff. "I'm happy that you trusted me to ride out the storm. I'm not thrilled that you didn't lean on me to help you through or that I fell to the bottom of your priority list."

"Understood," she says, "but if it helps, it was a very short priority list, so you were still in my top three."

"I'm ready to go back to being number one now."

"Done." She pulls me closer for a kiss to seal the deal.

"Also . . . would it be a dick move for me to ask you not to sleep over at another man's house? Because I don't mean to be a dick, but I _really_ don't think I could handle that again. I will pick you up at any hour of the day or night, like _forever_."

From the smile stretching across her face, I'm guessing she's okay with that. "Anything else?"

"Hmm, I think we need to establish some kind of rule of thumb about not going more than a day without having an actual conversation."

"Did you want to set a word minimum?"

"I'll get back to you on that."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Good." We share a long, slow kiss. "So . . . what about you? Are there any terms and conditions you want to add?"

"Just one," she says.

"I am all ears."

She cocks a brow at my, er, cock. "Um . . . not exactly."

"And you say _I'm_ the sex-starved one!" I tweak the nearest nipple, making Bella giggle. "Now, come on. Let's hear this demand."

Her smile fades, and she seems to take a deep dive behind my eyes. I wish to hell I knew what she was looking for in there. I realize I'm holding my breath when she finally speaks.

"You need to trust me, too, Edward. I am not out there looking to trade you in for a younger model."

My cheeks heat up as she makes me face my biggest fear head-on. But it's worse than a little embarrassment on my part. Up close like this, I can see what my insecurity is doing to Bella; there's real hurt in her eyes. I guess I never really considered how shitty my doubts must make her feel.

"Okay, understood."

"You're not just yessing me, right? You really get that my heart is taken? No room at the inn?"

"I get it, Bella, and I'm sorry I got a little carried away."

She grins up sheepishly. "You know, I've had my share of jealous moments, thinking about the stream of naked women that flow through your studio, especially since I know firsthand what goes on in that room."

I drop a soft kiss on her nose. "I promise, what happened in my studio with you was a unique situation. Nobody holds a candle to you, Bella. Nobody even comes close."

"I believe you, but . . . like you said, sometimes a person can get a little carried away with her thoughts."

"Mmm." I lean in and nuzzle her neck, because I like it when Bella gets carried away. "Maybe a touch of jealousy is healthy for a relationship?"

"As long as you don't forget what side your bread is buttered on."

Maybe I'm punch-drunk on everything that's happened since I ran into Bella on the bus, but her comment starts me laughing, and I can't stop. "Honey, you buttered my loaf on every side."

"Oh god," she says, "I sure hope they don't serve dinner rolls tonight at Shady Acres. I don't know how I'll survive."

Between our shared fit of giggles and the unfortunate reference to my mother, the mood is officially killed. I roll off Bella and close my eyes, content just to lie next to her, not frantic to catch each other up on every detail of our busy lives, not plagued by real or imagined slights.

Bella curls into my side, and I wrap my arm around her to snuggle her close. "Thank you for coming with me today," she mumbles. "I really don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there."

"Thank you for letting me in. And . . . speaking of being there, I happen to be free on May sixth."

She shifts. "Mrs. Cope told you."

"She figured I knew." It takes all my restraint not to open my eyes. I don't want to make this harder on Bella if she really doesn't want me to come.

"Psst!" She tickles my ribs, making me open my eyes. "You'll be there, won't you?"

Who could refuse those big, brown eyes?

"Of course I will."

"I might have also forgotten to mention how much I love you."

She did, but I never doubted it.

"I love you too, Bella."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Was there ever a doubt? Heh.

Hope everyone stays safe from Irma this weekend! Special shout-out/prayers to my sweet Chaya riding out the hurricane on the east coast of FL... stay safe, bb!  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	19. Making Headway

**19 MAKING HEADWAY**

Leah Clearwater is a challenge. Today is her third visit to my studio, and I fear it will be her last if I can't break through her tough shell. A shattered heart is often the most challenging wound to overcome. I'd thought we were making headway last time when she finally opened up about her best attributes, but she shut down before I could get her past the anteroom.

I would have loved to have bounced some ideas off Bella this morning, but she snuck out of the bedroom at the crack of dawn to organize her thoughts for the big confrontation with Riley. She certainly doesn't need more problems to solve right now, nor does she need me pestering her about how things are going on her end—but damn, I'm curious.

The doorbell diverts my attention to where it needs to be. I take it as a good sign that Leah is not hiding inside baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt today. _Wow,_ could that be a trace of mascara on her eyelashes? The transformation might appear subtle to a casual observer, but her efforts speak volumes to me about her state of mind. If I'd prepared myself for this possibility, perhaps I would have a ready compliment that wouldn't send her straight back inside her shell.

"Good morning. I'm so glad you're here." I draw her forward gently with my hand on her arm. "Come on in."

Leah steps through the doorway but stops just inside. "Just for a couple minutes. I'm not staying."

My heart sinks. "Oh. You didn't have to come all this way to cancel, Leah."

"I didn't," she says. "I came to give you this." She opens her hand and presents me with a folded up check for twice my regular sitting fee.

"What's this for? I didn't take a single photo of you."

I try to give it back but she presses my hand against my chest. "I've spent a lot of time reflecting on our conversations. They've really helped."

"That's great, Leah. Honestly, I'm thrilled, but I can't take your money just for a consultation."

She smirks. " _Please_! My therapist charges $150 an hour and I usually feel worse when I leave."

She seems dead-set on paying me, and I take advantage of the opening. "Tell you what. I will accept your payment, but you have to let me take at least one picture of you. Otherwise, my tax accountant isn't going to have the slightest idea how to classify this income."

"Oh, um . . . I really wasn't prepared . . ."

"You look beautiful."

She swipes her tongue across the thin coat of lipstick she must have just applied. "I'm not going to take off my clothes . . ."

I wave away that whole idea before she freaks out. "No, no, no, of course not. Look, I have the lighting set up for a magazine shoot I'm doing this afternoon with another client." I hope she won't press me on this; I am a terrible liar. "I even have some goofy props we can mess around with . . . nothing serious. I want to be able to give you _something,_ you know, to justify the fee."

"Sure, I guess that would be okay."

"Excellent. Thank you."

I lead her directly to the accessory trunk and make a couple of suggestions—glamorous, rock-star sunglasses, a feather boa, a big floppy hat. While she digs through the props, I choose a light, techno track we both can't help leaning into. Leah and I have done the heavy lifting in previous sessions; she deserves to remember what it's like to have fun. If all goes well, I will capture the moment so she can hold onto it.

I give the flash a practice pop. "Oh!" She lets out a surprised giggle. "I wasn't ready!"

"Me neither," I answer. "Just testing the equipment. Ignore me."

Today is a perfect day for the wireless remote. With the camera on a tripod, I can either make myself invisible or become a participant in the scene. The wide-angle lens will capture the spirit of this mini-shoot, which will hopefully be joyful and light.

Leah is still healing from abandonment by the man she loved and trusted. I'm sure her therapist has provided her with a toolkit of strategies for finding strength within herself, handling life as a "single," managing loneliness. But hell, she's _not_ alone. I am here, and I happen to be a man, and we can enjoy each other's company. Even if I'm a pretty awful dancer.

She tracks me with curiosity as I move past her toward the trunk and dig till I find my go-to costume: _Blues Brothers_ shades and black felt hat. The John Belushi sideburns are in here somewhere, but I don't have time to find them right now.

"What are you doing?" she finally asks.

"The disguise improves my dancing." I shake my hips, and she bursts out laughing. With a mock-scowl in place, I peer inside the trunk. "Hmm, I guess I better find my ZZ Top beard."

"No, don't," she says, still smiling hard. "You're a great dancer."

"And you are an even worse liar than I am."

"Okay, maybe 'great' was a bit of an overstatement, but it feels so good to laugh. Oh shit, I didn't mean it that way—"

My hips wiggle in invitation. "Come on, Clearwater, let's see it."

She wraps the boa around her neck and takes one end in each hand. Her shoulders go first, and the rest of her body follows. She pumps her arms to the beat until the boa is high over her head. I'm half-audience, half-partner, basically bobbing my head while she goes deeper into dance-diva mode.

I become so captivated with Leah's spirit, I nearly forget what I'm supposed to be doing. Luckily, I am a professional.

A dramatic burst of light hits the white umbrellas and reflects onto the white screen behind her. The flash seems to coax her out. It seems I have a ham on my hands. The light stands take over as surrogate dance partners while I capture the whole show in rapid-fire clicks. Leah struts and poses and flicks the hat into the air Mary Tyler Moore-style, collapsing onto the floor in a breathless fit of laughter.

I run and grab my Canon off the shelf so I don't miss these last precious shots of wild abandon. I crouch so my camera is level with the woman sprawled on her back on my studio floor. My ridiculous hat and glasses are a nuisance, and I toss them away as I creep toward her on my knees.

Leah turns slowly and meets my lens with her gaze. "I think you already earned your fee, Mr. Cullen," she says, still watching me, still grinning.

"This one's on the house," I tell her as I snap what I already know will be my favorite of this whole series.

A fine sheen of sweat gives her skin a glow most photographers would want to erase, but add the heat in her cheeks and the joy in her eyes, and I'd say Leah is the perfect picture of bliss. I can't help going there—the woman looks positively post-orgasmic. I steal one final image before offering her a hand off the floor.

"Damn, woman! Why didn't you tell me you could dance like that?"

She shrugs. "I guess I forgot."

"Well, it was lovely to watch. Ugh, that came out kind of creeper. What I meant was, you are truly radiant, and I hope you can hold onto that and call it up again when you need a boost."

"They say a picture is worth a thousand words . . ."

"Let's have a look . . ." I scroll back to the first one I took of her on the floor. "Yep, here's your thousand words," I say, tilting the display so she can see it, too. She's stunning, and I can see by the look on her face that she knows it.

"I hardly recognize this person," she whispers.

"Maybe it's time for you to get reacquainted."

Her eyes brim with tears. "Would it be okay if I hug you?"

I open my arms, and she steps into the hug.

"Thank you, Edward," she murmurs into my ear.

I attempt to answer, "My pleasure," but the boa drifts into my open mouth, and I end up spitting feathers out instead of words—just the spot of comic relief we both need.

"Maybe I should . . ." She unwraps the boa and returns it to the trunk while I head over to the tripod. "These props were a great idea. Where'd you come up with that?"

I take a quick spin through the pictures I snapped remotely. "Hmm? Oh, a bar mitzvah party for a friend's kid . . . Oh boy."

"What?" She nudges me to the side so she can have a look, too. "Wow! These are . . ."

"Tragic!" An elbow here, a blur of a chin there, strange facial expressions in flux. Way too much movement for the stationary, wide-angle lens. Definitely not my best photos, but did our little dance party serve its purpose? Hell yes, it did.

She grins up at me. "Hey, if your career as a photographer ever dries up, you could always make a living as a go-go dancer."

"Mmhmm." I shoo her away from the camera. "Give me a week to make some sense of these?"

"Sure, Edward. Take your time. I'm good."

I return her easy smile. "Yes, I can see that."

When she comes back to review her proofs, I'll pass along the information about Victoria's support group. Something tells me Leah will quickly become a leader. We say our goodbyes, and my phone is in my hand before the door closes.

The messages from Bella aren't all that encouraging, but she's kept me in the loop, which speaks volumes.

 ** _R did not take news well.  
Glad I told him at library._**

I have to admit to a not-so-kind chuckle at the thought of poor Riley meeting the brick wall of Bella this morning. Just when he'd thought he had the problem—and likely my girl along with it—all tied up with a pretty bow. And now that bow is unraveling spectacularly. He better fucking behave himself.

I send her a quick text to let her know I'm finished with my client, and my phone rings not two seconds later.

"Bella? Are you okay?"

"Yep. He sputtered and spewed for a while, but I think he got it out of his system." Her voice is lighter than when she left my bed this morning.

"Sounds messy."

"I'll be honest. It wasn't pretty."

My repulsion for this asshole reaches an all-time high. I knew Riley wouldn't go down easily, but a real man admits when he's wrong.

"I wish I could've been there for you."

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but I'm glad you weren't."

"Sorry?"

Her soft sigh reaches my ears. "I needed to handle Riley myself."

Her words sting, especially when I'd thought we were finally on the right track again. "Of course you did."

"I've hurt your feelings," she says quietly.

I clear my throat and screw up the courage to admit I'm bent out of shape. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that staying silent only leads to misunderstandings. "I have to admit, it is a bit disappointing that you still think I would interfere in your business."

"Edward, you know that wasn't meant as a criticism of you, right?"

"Bella . . ."

"Your forehead's all scrunched up, isn't it?"

" _What_?" A quick sweep of my fingertips across my forehead tells me she's right—as if there were ever a doubt. "Yes. Whatever. This is important. You do know I don't think you need me to swoop in and save you, right?"

"Yes, I get that. Look, this is _my_ issue. You know it's always been my issue."

The fact that she frames it this way, as if there's such a thing as a problem that can be hers alone, bothers me more than anything. "I am familiar with the history." I fail to keep my irritation out of my voice, and I'm not really sorry about it.

"Edward—" She cuts herself off with a sigh, then starts again. "Okay. We obviously need to talk about this, but can we table it until later?"

Just hearing her acknowledgment of the problem is enough for now _._ "Of course. How did you leave things with Riley?"

"Oh, he stopped his bitching and moaning once he realized I wasn't going to back down."

Damn, I wish I could see her face right now. I bet she's every bit as radiant as Leah in full-on dance mode.

"That's my girl."

"Always," she answers so quickly, it fills up every corner of my heart. "And Riley got that message, too—loud and clear."

 _And there go my hackles._ "What's that mean?"

"Oh, y'know, I casually dropped your name into the conversation, how you happened to be on the bus and then came along with me to deliver the bad news to the Orlovs . . ."

A wide grin spreads across my face. "I bet he loved that."

Bella giggles. "He had some prize words for you."

"I'll live, but I'm sorry you had to deal with his crap."

"But it was so educational to learn that you're controlling me because clearly, I can't think for myself."

 _That has a familiar ring . . ._ "Yikes. What'd you say to that?"

"I told him a wise person isn't afraid to listen to good advice and then weigh all the options, and I also told him that our relationship is none of his goddamn business."

"Damn! I wish I'd been a fly on that wall." I close my eyes and try to imagine myself on the other end of this conversation, with Bella in my arms. "I am so proud of you, baby."

"I'm proud of me, too."

I can hear the smile in her voice. If she felt the need to do this alone, I'll deal; I am nothing if not adaptable.

"So, where are you now? Still grinding it out at the library?"

"No, we're at Dannin Hall, waiting for our advisor to see us. Riley insisted, said he wouldn't 'take a hatchet to our baby' without first sitting down with Banner."

"That seems a trifle dramatic."

" _Please_. He's trying to cover his ass."

"By throwing yours under the bus."

"How else would you expect a weasel to behave?" _Damn,_ it feels good that she finally sees through all of Riley's bullshit.

"I'm sorry, Bella. It sucks that you got stuck with that jackass for a partner."

"Hey, if the goal was to learn from a real-life simulation, I'd say this whole thing has been a fantastic learning experience all around."

"That sounds like a very healthy way to look at it."

"Yeah, and the kicker is, we are going to save Orlovs'."

"Speaking of which, I'm heading over there now to get started on the photo project with Pop-Pop."

"Oh! How'd your session go with Leah this morning?"

"It went well," I answer, smiling as I recall Leah's joy and then smiling even harder because Bella asked—another good sign. "I'll tell you about it later."

"Okay. I should be able to meet you at the bakery around two. Gotta run; Banner just came out to get us."

"Good luck. Love you."

"You, too."

Our call ends, and my phone switches to the home page, but I stand there like a sap, grinning at it until the screen goes dark.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Nope, everything is not perfect just yet, even if the make-up sex was va-va-voom. Relationship conflicts are like weight loss- that pooch didn't get there overnight, and it's not going away any quicker, especially if you're gonna keep it off.

Many thanks to Patrizia and Chaya for their invaluable help with every single chapter. And thank you, lovely readers, for riding out the storm.  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	20. Go Fund Them

**20 GO FUND THEM**

Bella's footfalls rumble down the stairs, drawing my attention from the series of photos on my screen to the girl standing in the doorway to my office. She is lit up and bursting to share something, yet she pauses to knock on my door.

"Got a sec?"

"For you? Anytime! What's up?"

"I think I've finally figured this out," she says, which is good because she's been working on it since we finished breakfast almost three hours ago. Bella hands me a piece of paper covered in pencil scrawls with whole sections scratched out and crazy arrows directing my attention all over the page.

"Can I get the magic decoder ring or something?" I ask.

She pushes off the doorframe with a cute little huff, steps behind my chair, and leans over my shoulder. She smells nice, but I am pretty sure that's off topic.

"Right here," she says, pointing to a line about halfway down the page. "What do you think of this?"

"Ah, okay. Baker's dozen sponsorship . . . thirteen free pastries for a $250 donation. I like that!"

"I can't take credit for the idea. Bree suggested the reward levels."

Between Bree's experience with online campaigns, Victoria's advice about ROI, and Emmett's contacts with the Hooters bricks-and-mortar team, Bella seems to have all the bases covered. Now, all that's left to do is get this publicity machine moving and start raising the cash. And then, there's the matter of her presentation.

Bella's finger glides a few lines lower. "What about this dinner for eight, cooked by Irina and Sasha for a $1000 donation?"

"Dinner? Isn't that a bit outside of their range?" I crane my neck far enough to catch a very proud smile on Bella's face.

"I brought up the possibility of staying open later in the day, and Irina jumped all over it, said she's been trying to convince her father to add some heartier dishes to the menu for a while now."

"Sounds like a great way to beta test the idea," I answer, marveling at Bella's ingenuity, "but I could see this getting out of control quickly. Will you limit the number?"

Bella laughs. "For a thousand dollars, I think Pop-Pop would stand on his head and spit nickels. Maybe you're right though. We should put a cap on it, just in case."

"Won't it also create a sense of urgency if only the first three get the reward?"

"I like the way you think, Mr. Cullen." Her lips curl into a sexy smile that makes me _think,_ all right . . . think about kissing and what usually comes afterward.

"If you knew what I was thinking, you might not say that." I pump my eyebrows in case she needs a hint.

"Ugh, how is that hot?" Bella's pout is the sexiest thing yet. I'm not-so-secretly thrilled her thoughts have now joined mine in the gutter.

"Maybe because we both need a study break?"

"Aww, you've been working your very talented fingers to the bone down here, haven't you?"

Her hands migrate to my shoulders, and I let out a deep groan as Bella works her thumbs into the knots I always get from sitting at my computer too long.

"God that feels good. Speaking of talented fingers . . . _mmm_."

"It's the least I can do. You've spent every spare minute on this photo-essay."

"You know I am delighted to use my superpower to help you." I'm pretty sure Bella can hear my grin even though my chin is now tucked into my chest. If she keeps this up, I might just liquefy.

"I've kind of been dying to see what you're doing with those old photos you all dug up the other day."

"Have you, now?" I can barely contain my glee, even if it means my massage is about to end. Bella is not the only one bursting to share.

What she doesn't know is that my after-hours visit to the bakery to pick up old-country memorabilia turned into a full-on video session. Three generations baking together at their giant worktable, reminiscing about the highlights and the hard days.

"How much longer are you planning to make me wait?" she asks. "You do realize we're going live in two days?"

I almost wish I were better at keeping secrets because stringing her along is so much fun.

"Why don't you have a seat, and we'll take a look at what I've put together so far."

"Really?" She's already rolled the chair around in front of my desk and scooted as close as she can to the screen. "Okay, show me!"

I shake my head, laughing. "Has anyone ever told you that patience is a virtue, young lady?"

"Quit stalling, Old School!"

She huddles closer, leaning into my body. Such a casual move, one I might have taken for granted two months ago but not today. This is _us_ : shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing ideas, doing what we each do best, and cheering each other on.

I tease her one last time before clicking open the folder with all the scanned photos. "Okay, you sure you're ready for this?"

She lunges across my body for the mouse, but I swipe it out of her reach and point to the screen. "This is the house were Pop-Pop was born."

She whips around to the photo of the small brick house, four children standing in a straight line across the front. "Oh my god! Is that Pop-Pop in the suspenders? He was such a cute little boy!"

The next picture is a stiffly posed photo of Pop-Pop's parents dressed in formal clothing.

"Does his mother's smile remind you of anyone?" I ask.

"Dead ringer for Irina," Bella answers.

"I thought so, too."

I continue clicking through the old photos: interior shots of the family home, the village square, Pop-Pop's wedding photos, the newlyweds' arrival in America, baby Irina, Irina's wedding. Reminded of the sad saga Irina shared about her painful divorce shortly after Sasha was born, I relate the story to Bella.

"I guess every family has its drama," Bella says.

"True. So, this next group of shots is the construction of the original bakery. I thought I'd craft these into a time-lapse video for the website."

"I love that idea!"

I've already culled the best of the bunch, but there are still at least two dozen to scroll through. I finally reach the last of the bakery shots, ending with the picture I took outside on Tuesday. I can barely stay in my seat when Bella notices.

"Hey, that picture was taken recently! Look at the dry cleaners next door."

"Yep."

"Was that in their stash?"

"Nope. I took that one."

My heart bangs against my chest as understanding dawns on her.

She points to the screen, mouth dropped open. " _This week_?"

"Mmhmm."

"Oh my god, Edward. What did you do?"

She swallows hard and so do I.

"Ready?"

She scoots closer, practically sitting on my lap, and slips her arm through mine. "I don't know, but go ahead." She gives me one of those heart-melting looks that make me want to hang the moon and stars for her.

"So . . ." I click to the next photo, Pop-Pop standing outside under the _Orlovs'_ sign. Hands on hips, worn apron tied at his waist, a day's work written on his face. "It occurred to me that we're going to need some current photos for promotional materials—you know, Facebook, Instagram, a permanent website they can keep using long after the campaign is over, maybe even a place to take online orders?"

The screen changes to a candid of Irina and Sasha behind the pastry case, then a few shots of customers relaxing around the bistro.

"These are great, Edward," Bella says. "Makes me want to curl up at one of those tables with a cup of coffee and something sweet."

"That would be the goal."

I scroll through about twenty close-ups of different pastries, a few of the impressive ovens, and a glimpse or two inside the industrial refrigerator. I've saved my favorite photo for last: a black and white of three sets of hands, each working a mound of dough at the long worktable.

"Whoa! This is incredible!" Her gaze travels across the screen, taking in all the details that make this shot so special. "Oh, Edward! I think this photo should be the cover photo for the campaign. Look at the hands, ranging from youth to old age, the old and the new brought together—just like we're hoping our support base will be. Young people or new Americans or people new to San Francisco, joining together with the older generation and longtime neighbors and whoever is left from their old crew. Working the dough, literally nurturing the community we're hoping will provide for them. This photo kind of says it all."

"I'm so pleased you got all that out of it."

She turns her attention from the screen to study me. "What do _you_ see when you look at that photo?"

The girl knows the way to my heart. Talking about photography is second only to eating sweets.

"I loved the composition and the range of textures, the skin—as you pointed out—and the dough. There's a movement to it, but at the same time, they're calm, settled. To me, it says they'd be happy to do this all day."

"You know, you're kind of brilliant."

"Eh, I'm all right." I brush off her compliment and bring us back to the subject at hand. "What do you think about using reprints of some of these for your giveaways?"

"I think it's a fantastic idea. How much does it cost to print them on demand?"

"I'd have to check, but I don't think it's a big deal."

"This is amazing, Edward. Thank you so much."

"You know I'm happy to help. So . . . do you really think this is going to work?"

Her sigh tells me everything. "Even with all the giveaways, I can't see how we could possibly bring in more than $15,000 from the "Save Orlovs'" campaign. That should be more than enough for the buildout for the new exterior with the network of Russian tradespeople lined up to help, but their landlord hit them with a rent increase in January, and they've been hemorrhaging cash ever since."

"Hence the hostile takeover that ended up in your lap."

"Exactly," she says. "According to Riley, we'll need to raise an additional $10,000 to bridge the deficit through October."

 _So much for my happy buzz._ Whatever part survived the cold shower of facts and figures is extinguished by the mention of ponchiki-for-brains.

"Are you pretty confident in Boy Wonder's projections?"

"Yes," she says. I can't help but notice Bella doesn't even raise an eyebrow anymore over my nicknames for him. "We both went over the numbers with Irina again yesterday."

"Good. I'm glad you're staying involved with all the moving parts."

She chuffs. "You _are_?"

"Yes, I am. Why does that surprise you?"

"I just assumed you'd be happier if Riley and I split the tasks down the middle and took care of our own pieces separately."

"Well, obviously I would prefer it if you never had to deal with the likes of him again, but seeing as he's your partner and you're stuck with him another few weeks—"

"Two weeks and five days . . ." She nails me with a smirk that defies me to pretend I haven't had a countdown clock going in my head since this damn project began.

I acknowledge her intuition with an unspoken touché. _Ahh,_ it's great to be on the same wavelength again—though our renewed intimacy does not bode well for my secret-keeping ability. But then, I'd gladly give up a secret or two any day of the week to have my Bella back.

" _As_ I was saying, I'm glad you're not deferring to him."

"Pshh, if anything, I've realized what a lazy motherfucker Riley is. His so-called solution was just the path of least resistance. As soon as I pointed out that his lame objections were just a way to avoid extra work, he stopped his whining and got with the program."

"I still give you a ton of credit for standing your ground. It's not always easy to do what you know is right."

Her bravado wavers. "What feels right in my bones isn't necessarily what matters though. If we can't close that $10,000 gap and turn this business around in the next six months, this whole exercise is futile."

"I understand." My brain races with dead-end ideas she's probably already considered. Besides, she's not looking at me to solve the problem for her. "Who knows, Bella? Maybe the response to the campaign will blow you away. Nobody can say for sure what will happen, right?"

"I guess not, but it doesn't seem likely that a group of unrelated parties would cough up the volume of cash we need as a pure donation, no matter how many freebies we offer."

"I suppose not," I agree with a heavy heart, "although the idea of free pastries for life would kind of be a dream come true for me."

I wait for her grin, or at least an eyeroll, but neither comes. Instead, she seems lost in thought.

"Bella?"

"Oh my god," she says slowly, then picks up speed and volume. "Oh my GOD! OH MY GOD! EDWARD!"

"What?"

She grabs my arms and shakes me. "What if you really could have free pastries your whole life?"

"Bella, I was just messing around. What kind of a price tag could you possibly put on that?"

"Ten thousand dollars," she says. As if it's not crazy.

"Um . . . are you suggesting that someone would fork over a ten-thousand-dollar gift just for the privilege of not being charged for a daily treat from the bakery? Don't you think that's a bit extravagant?"

"No!"

"No?" I scan Bella's face for the usual warning signs that exhaustion and self-doubt are setting in, but I see only a bright-eyed, chipper girl in front of me. "Baby, you know how much I love my desserts, but—"

"No! I mean _no,_ it wouldn't be a gift. It would be an equity interest."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning this person would be a part-owner in the bakery. I'd have to run it by the Orlovs, obviously, but if the choice is between losing the business to a mega-corporation or selling off some percentage of the bakery to a white knight instead—"

"Hang on. Did you say 'white knight'?"

Now, _that_ has a nice ring to it. Guy gallops in on a white stallion, brandishing a big, fat check. The villagers lavish him with delicious pastries. Obviously, he gets the girl.

"Yes," she answers, seemingly oblivious to my mental meandering. "Typically, the white knight is the person who swoops in and buys a company out before a hostile takeover, but in this case, that person could just take a minority interest in the bakery and allow the Orlovs to retain control."

"So, in addition to the all-you-can eat scenario, this knight would share in the profits as well?"

"In theory, yes, to the extent the profits are withdrawn from the business. More likely, any profits would be reinvested to grow the business—for example, invested in new equipment or socked away in reserves for a rainy day. But the investor's value would increase in proportion to the increased value of the business. If the majority owners ever wanted to buy out the minority investor or if there were a sale down the road, there would hopefully be a profit on the original investment."

"Ahh, I see. So, out of curiosity, where do you think you'd find this white knight character?"

"I don't have a clue. It would have to be outside of the whole Go Fund Me process because those are purely donations."

"Hmm. What if, say, for argument's sake, _I_ were to invest that money?"

Bella snaps out of hypothetical mode to find that I'm not messing around. "What? _You_? Edward, no! You can't!" Her head is shaking so hard, I'm afraid it might break free of her neck and roll away.

"Why _not_ me? Do you not believe in this business?"

"Of course I do! That's why I'm fighting for them! But you can't just . . . just rush in and save everyone!"

"Why the hell not? Why should someone else get to have all the fun?"

" _Fun_?" Bella clucks. "This is a huge risk! Do you know what percentage of restaurants fail?"

"Yes. Well, not exactly, but I'm sure it's quite high—as was the risk you took when you decided to change the course of your project. You and Riley had that easy A all but handed to you with the buyout solution. Even your advisor warned you this change in tactics could backfire."

"What good is a high grade if I have to sell my soul to get it?" My fierce girl is back in full force but with the soft, gooey insides I know and love so much.

"One might say the same about a savings account."

She responds to my comeback with a resigned smirk. "One might, if that 'one' were you."

"Would you have me any other way?"

"Of course not," she says without hesitation.

"There you go."

"Ugh, Edward. I don't want to see you throw good money after bad if this doesn't work out."

"Hey . . ."—I take Bella's hands in mine, halting her knee-jerk negativity before she says another word—"I get that I could lose the money."

"And it would be my fault!"

"Now who's saving whom? Look, Bella. I'm a big boy. I can weigh all the information and make this decision for myself. Before I commit, I'd want to go over the numbers with you— _just_ you, not that hipster know-it-all—and have a long discussion with the Orlovs. I know nothing is certain, but I believe in what you're doing here. I believe this retro, old-world bakery-restaurant will carve out a niche for itself. I believe that with the help of your campaign and this PR campaign, the neighbors will rally around the Orlovs, at least for a little while, long enough to get them back on solid ground. And I want to be a part of that."

"But, Edward . . . ten _thousand_ dollars! You can't!" This seems to be her new favorite thing to say.

"Actually, I can."

Okay, this conversation is getting real. I'm the one who picks up most of the tabs when we go out—and cheerfully so. I've lived a modest life of bachelorhood for long enough to have banked most of my earnings. Raoul's additional hours come out of my pocket, but the remainder of Mom's expenses are covered by her contract with Shady Acres. Bottom line, I'm doing okay for myself, and projecting into what I hope is my future, I could provide generously for my family—should Bella ever allow herself to be provided for, which is most definitely a conversation for another day.

"So, here's the thing . . ." This isn't the easiest topic to discuss. We've talked around this issue before, but I haven't exactly opened my checkbook for Bella's examination. "I'm not rolling in dough or anything, excuse the pun, but I do have a nice nest egg set aside."

"You were talking about using that as a down payment on a new house."

"Yes, and with the new traffic pouring in as a result of the show, I'll have enough to do both. I think it's about time some of my money starts working for me for a change."

She squeezes my hands. "And if this fails?"

I shrug. "I'll still have my camera, and at least we tried, right?"

Bella wells up and forces out a shaky breath. "You know, you don't have to do this." At least she's not saying I _can't_ anymore.

"I know. But honestly, can you think of any more perfect investment for me than part ownership in a bakery?"

"To be honest, no," she says. Her smile wins out over the mix of objections and worry, and it's so damn beautiful, I know I'm grinning too. "But I hope you're not doing this out of some sense of obligation. You do love to save me . . ."

"Yes, I do . . . but this isn't about saving you. It just makes so much sense—for everyone. The Orlovs will have their dream—the _real_ one—and the neighborhood gets to keep this gem of a place, and I get to eat all the _ponchiki_ I want."

"And I might get to play the hero, too, for once," she says. "Would you happen to have any room for me in your saddle?"

"Always." I lift her fully into my lap. "Giddyap, m'lady."

She kisses me most enthusiastically.

What a wise businessman I am. I haven't signed over a dime, and my investment is already paying dividends.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hope this peek through the window of Edward's editing studio answers many (notice I didn't say "ALL"?) of your questions about the dynamic between Edward and Bella a few days later, the tone of Riley and Bella's relationship, their supervisor's advice, and the future of Orlovs'. For those unfamiliar with the term, "ROI" stands for Return on Investment. I guess my business degree does come in handy once in a while!

Special love to Patrizia for helping me work out how Edward could be heroic while still empowering Bella, and to Chayasara for making the words flow goodly. For the record, any mistakes are mine alone—I tinker; sue me.

Bonus welcome-home points to Mr H if he reads to the end of my author's note this time... (He told me does read them "sometimes"...) and adds the secret password YEEHAW to his review! *wink*  
 **XXX ~BOH**


	21. Graduation Day

**21 GRADUATION DAY**

The wood folding chair under my ass is no match for my fidgeting. It doesn't help that I've been here since 8:30 this morning, saving the row of seats for Bella's entourage.

I check my watch for the umpteenth time: 10:48. According to the program, the conferring of degrees will begin at 11, and it can't come soon enough. The esteemed speaker is nearing the end of her remarks, thank goodness. I couldn't repeat one word of the speech that has lasted eighteen minutes and counting.

Mom reaches across the armrest of her wheelchair and wraps her hand around my left arm. "You're squirming," she whispers with that stern look I used to get in church. "Sit still!"

"I'm trying!" I grumble.

Sitting still is about the last thing I feel like doing right now. This is a huge moment for Bella. Officially, she started on this path three years ago, but realistically, she had to have dreamt about graduating from college the first time she enrolled at USF and subsequently failed out. This day has been a long time coming.

Even so, my anxiety is unwarranted. Bella and Riley rocked the presentation last week. It irks me that he received the same A as Bella on their project, but I can't fault the philosophy behind it. As much as I hate to admit it, Riley carried off his duties like a champ. He owed Bella that much, at least—that, and buzzing off for good. _Dasvidania,_ and don't let the door hit your sockless loafers on the way out!

The panel of faculty judges awarded high marks on the merits of their work, but it couldn't have hurt that Pop-Pop showed up with dossants for the entire class. Either way, Bella and Riley locked up the A for the semester, which means my girl is graduating _cum laude_ today. Still, until Bella is safely across the stage with the diploma in her hand, she won't exhale—and neither will I.

And then, of course, there's the not-so-minor matter of the survival of the bakery. The Save Orlovs' campaign started with a bang and picked up steam the first ten days, slowing down a bit after hitting the $10k mark but well on its way to $15k as we sit here today. With my additional capital injection, who's to say what will be in six months or a year? I know Bella doesn't plan to let up with the publicity campaign until she's sure she's done everything in her power to help.

A large, dark cloud moves across the sky. Forty percent chance of rain today, but could I convince Bella to take an umbrella this morning? "How am I gonna hold an umbrella?" she says. "Left hand out for the diploma, right hand to shake the dean's hand."

"Fine. How about a raincoat with a hood?"

"Have you seen the size of those caps?" She pats me on the cheek as she walks out my door, leaving me shaking my head.

The speaker thanks the audience for our attention; polite applause follows. The class of 2019 stands on cue. _It's go-time._

I lift the camera to my eye, the weight and feel of my equipment immediately calming my restless soul as it always has. _"Edward, there's a pretty bluebird outside. Go get a picture,"_ Mom would say when I couldn't sit still to do my homework. _"You can bring your camera,"_ Dad would say when he wanted to coax me to a Giants' game. The camera has taught me many things over the course of my life, but maybe the most important lesson of all was how to be still when I'm feeling anything but.

I angle toward Mom and take her picture first. Is she missing Dad today? I'm sure if it were me up there crossing the stage, she'd be thinking how sad it was he didn't live to see the day. At the click of my shutter, Mom turns and graces me with a beautiful smile. When you put a camera in your child's hands, you sign up for a lifetime of smiling for it. Mom has always been a good sport, but today's smile has a little something extra in it, something that cuts through the gray day and gets right to the heart of the matter.

I can't resist stealing a few more of her while I have the excuse of the occasion. It's all too painfully obvious otherwise that I might be taking "the last picture before Esme fill-in-the-blank-of-inevitable-misery."

It's been a long time since I've shot a wedding, but my practiced eye takes over without a need for conscious thought, and the hands follow, doing what they need to do to produce the right combination of shots for the event: candids of small groups and individuals, a general sense of ambiance, and—quite obviously—the star of the show. Training my zoom lens on the stage, I grab some close-ups of Bella's advisor and the dean as they move into diploma-conferring position. I'm able to locate Bella's long brown hair below one of the mortarboards as her row waits to file out, and I capture several of Bella in her cap and gown before going in for a close-up.

This is the money shot: Bella's face in semi-profile, chin angled just so toward the stage. The face of a woman whose _now_ is in clear focus even if her future is pleasantly blurred. I see the exact picture I want, but I only have a few seconds before Bella's row starts filing toward the aisle, and there are three rows of restless students standing in my way.

 _Patience_ , I remind my trigger finger. You always get one good window for every picture.

I chase an opening, listing to my right, unaware my upper body is hovering over Raoul's lap until I hear his laughter behind me. Never mind; I'm here now, and I have an important job to do. Acting every bit the seasoned pro, I catch the image I wanted. A quick check of my display confirms it.

I lower my camera and round on Raoul. "What's going on back there?"

"Is that a Zoom lens, or am I just happy to see you?"

"Oh, good god."

A raindrop plops onto my head. _Now? Crap._ I can't imagine the rain will hold off until they get through the S's. If only Bella were a Cullen already . . . My stomach flips again, and this time it's not about Bella crossing the stage.

Today is the day. Well, tonight is the night. The room at Duckhorn is waiting for us. My suitcase is in the trunk. I packed a few things for Bella after she left this morning, but if all goes well, my fiancée and I won't need much clothing for the next four days and nights.

 _"Justin Aarons, Amelia Abadi, Patrice Adams . . ."_

It took all my powers of persuasion to convince Charlie and Renee to change the surprise dinner celebration to a not-surprise luncheon. I finally appealed to Charlie's appreciation for logistics; how could we surprise Bella if all these people were already there for the ceremony six hours earlier?

I could have saved myself some wear and tear by letting her folks in on my plan. It's not as if Charlie hasn't shamelessly hinted, pulling me aside before Thanksgiving dinner last year to "casually" mention that I seem like a man with honorable intentions, _wink-wink_.

Under most other circumstances, I would have been that guy who asks the father for his daughter's hand. Perhaps Mom is right, and I am overly sensitive, but with this parent-daughter dynamic, I would never put Bella in a subordinate position to her parents. Even an old-fashioned guy like me can recognize when adhering to custom is the wrong choice for the current day.

Frankly, with all Bella and I have been going through the past few months, I'm grateful I never reached out for Charlie's blessing. Our relationship didn't need the added pressure of a pending proposal—not until I passed the "eyes wide open" phase. So, no; Charlie and Renee will find out about my proposal after the fact.

 _Squirm._

 _"Riley Biers . . ."_ That's one moment I won't be capturing on film, but I can't resist watching Riley cross the stage, his blond hair nearly touching his shoulders. I guess the bun didn't fit under his cap. Shame.

 _"Alanna Brown, Anthony Bucco, Samuel Buchanan . . ."_

A fat raindrop darkens my slacks, quickly followed by another in my hair. I lift my face to the sky. Dammit! It's about to pour.

Raoul taps my knee with a folded-up poncho and gestures across my body toward Mom. I duck out of my seat and past Mom's wheelchair, fluff out the poncho, and settle it over Mom's head and shoulders. She pats my hand, but her focus never leaves the stage. She wouldn't miss Bella's moment of triumph for anything.

Raoul gives me a wink as I slide back into my seat next to him. He is going to have one hell of a time rolling the Esme-mobile back to the car over this soggy field, but I'm sure he'll make it look easy as he always does.

Maybe today has me feeling especially mushy, but as my gaze travels from Mom to Raoul to Shelly to Bella's parents and brothers, I can't help but reflect on how this motley crew have come to be family. Woven together through the bonds of love, family, friendship, and even illness—and soon I hope, more officially, by marriage.

I grab a few candids of Garrett and Alec at the end of our group, Bella's brothers looking more bored than anything right now. Charlie and Renee are taking it all in, surveying the scene with anticipation on their faces. What catches my eye is the knot of their intertwined hands on Renee's knee.

A lump forms in my throat as I try to imagine what must be running through their minds right now. As I capture a few frames of their complicated expressions, I can't help but reflect on how far they've all come as a family. I'm sure the parents' joy has to be mixed with some measure of relief that Bella made it through at last. I have to wonder at the nature of the pride they're surely feeling. Bella did this on her own steam, in large part. She made the commitment almost in spite of her parents' _lack_ of support; she paid for her classes and books. She pushed to the finish line with her last ounce of energy. They would not deny any of those things . . . and yet were it not for their tough love, would Bella have pulled her life together and reached this point?

Lord knows, Charlie and Renee have made their mistakes, and Bella hasn't always been the easiest daughter. I hope when my time comes, I'll be a good father. At least I know I've been a good son and a decent boyfriend.

Shelly catches me pointing my lens at her and shoos me away with the handkerchief hanging from her fist. I lower the camera, look her straight in the eye, and shake my head. _Oh no, you don't. You can't escape that easily._ When I lift the camera again, she turns to face the stage and allows me a clear profile shot. I let her off the hook for now—there's always lunch.

Raoul meets my lens with a sly smirk. "Finally! I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. Cullen," he says just loud enough for me to hear. "You know, I'm available for private sessions anytime . . ."

I'm laughing too hard to take his picture. On top of that, the rain is now impossible to ignore. The audience buzzes with activity, everyone reaching for umbrellas and pulling on coats. I feel sorry for the D's and E's, whose names can hardly be heard above the din.

I scan the line of black robes for Bella, but the sea of umbrellas and steady rain make it impossible to see more than a tiny frame of the activity up front. I do the bob and weave, but it's no use; I can't find the long, brown hair. _Dammit!_ _Where is she?_

I slide the umbrella out from under my chair and scoot past Mom again. Standing to the side of the crowd, I pan along the line of students until I locate Bella's profile with my zoom. I now realize why I couldn't find her hair; it's tucked inside the back of her gown à la Quasimodo.

The photojournalist in me can't resist taking the picture; it really is so Bella. The biggest moment of her life, captured for posterity with a giant hump on her back and rain streaking down her face.

But damn, the boyfriend in me can't watch this scene a moment longer. My girl is drowning up there, and I'm standing here taking pictures like some paparazzi lowlife!

I take off toward the back of the crowd, camera clasped tight in one hand and umbrella handle in the other. I've reached a jog as I round the last row of chairs. I turn the corner and head toward the stage with a singular thought propelling me forward: _shelter Bella_.

I attempt to sidle up to the line quietly so as not to detract from the proceedings, but enough of her classmates know me by now, or have at least heard of Umbrella Man, that a buzz starts once I reach the end of the line. The message jumps backwards through the alphabet like an old-fashioned game of Telephone, and there's nothing I can do about it now. Word of my rescue mission reaches Bella just before I do. She whips her head around, shocked to see me running toward her.

"Oh my god! What are you doing?" Bella mouths.

It occurs to me then what a sight I must be: out of breath, drenched mop of hair plastered to my head, sports coat heavy with rain. Oh, and holding an umbrella that might have actually prevented some of this had it occurred to me to open it!

I push the button now, not a moment too soon, and the bright red fabric pops open and stretches wide over the metal spokes. I only relax when I get the umbrella over Bella's head and stop the rain from pounding down on her.

The girls on either side of Bella huddle closer, giggling and thanking me while Bella shakes her head at me, slack-jawed with an expression I'd like to interpret as wonder and awe. A titter of laughter ripples through the crowd, which really doesn't help my cause.

I lean in and whisper in her ear. "Sorry, I didn't mean to create a spectacle, but you were getting soaked."

"So is everyone else," she whispers back.

"I'm not everyone else's boyfriend."

Having, of course, no answer for my brilliant logic, Bella rolls her eyes in that you-shouldn't-have-but-I'm-glad-you-did way she sometimes does, then turns to face the stage. I step in close behind her, and she leans back against my body—the slightest, sweetest surrender that tells me I'm in exactly the right place.

"Can you hold these?" I reach around her with the camera on one side and the umbrella on the other, leaving her little choice but to do as I asked.

With my hands free, I gather up her hair and release it from the awful polyester gown. Goosebumps rise on her neck and shoulders where my fingertips brush against her skin. I'm aware we're being watched by many sets of eyes, which is the only reason I don't nuzzle her neck with my nose, because it is damn tempting right now.

" _Derek Park, Hinda Pataki, John Pelletier . . ."_

The line shuffles forward; sadly, we have to break our intimate embrace to move with the crowd. The rain beats down harder all around us, and a funny thing happens. Another man jumps out of the crowd with his umbrella and rushes over to one of the graduates . . . and then someone's mother, and another person, and another. Soon, the whole line is protected by umbrellas of all shapes and sizes.

The dean pauses to acknowledge the spectacle with a chuckle. "Well, there's something you don't see every day!"

Lucky me, I happen to have my camera! I snap a couple dozen photos of the umbrella line, the audience, and the highly amused faculty.

Bella tips her head back and snickers at me, and I take her picture, too. "Look what you started, Umbrella Man!"

"What _I_ started? _You're_ the one who refused to take an umbrella today!"

"You really don't get it, do you?" She smiles so hard, it almost hurts my heart.

"Yeah, I think I do." As proud as I am of Bella's independence, I need her to need me—and she does.

 _"Thomas Rowbottom, Orlando Ruiz, Kenneth Sabaj . . ."_

"Hey, they're on the S's. You ready?"

"I guess," she says, then spins around to face me. "Wait—you're not going to walk across the stage with me, are you?"

There's a makeshift roof over the proceedings. "Wasn't planning on it . . . but come to think of it, I'm not that keen on running around the whole audience again just to get back to my seat."

She shakes her head and laughs. "Why don't you just crouch down, run across the front, and meet me on the other side?"

 _"Donald Seaboldt . . ."_

"That doesn't sound very dignified."

"Do you want to be dignified, or do you want to be there for me?"

"Oh! So, now you want me there, do you?"

"Obviously." She's facing the stage, but her smile reaches high into her cheeks. "Hey, remember the day we met, how you sat next to me on the bus and talked to me so I'd forget how nervous I was about my interview?"

"Of course I do. I remember every single detail about that day."

 _"William Smalley . . ."_

She whirls around, spinning the umbrella above our heads. "You do?"

"Of course, Bella. It was the best day of my life."

 _"Sandeep Sodhi . . ."_

"Know what?" she asks, getting a little misty-eyed. "I think this might be the best day of my life. Right here, right now, standing under this umbrella with you in the pouring rain, about to walk across this stage."

It's tragic that I can't kiss her right now. "Rain's kind of our thing. With our luck, it'll probably pour on our wedding day."

 _"Glen Stinson . . ."_

Bella blinks. "Um . . . did you just say 'our wedding day'?"

 _Whoops._ "Uh, yeah, I think I did."

"Edward? Did you just . . . propose?"

 _Oh shit! Abort! Abort!_

"I didn't mean to!"

 _"Isabella Swan."_

"What?" She squinches her eyes, then realizes I'm not the one who called her name.

I jab my finger toward the dean.

"Ohmygod!" She scurries halfway up the steps to the stage before it hits her—she is still holding the umbrella.

I run alongside her in front of the stage, and she tosses the umbrella down to me. The audience applauds my impressive catch, and a roar of laughter bubbles up from the crowd. I hope I haven't just turned Bella's best day into Bella's worst day, but all I can do now is try not to call any more damn attention to myself.

I scurry as quickly as I can to the other side of the stage and look up just in time to see Bella receive her diploma. _Fuck! The picture!_

Bobbling the umbrella in one hand, I nearly knock myself out hoisting the camera to my face. Whatever settings I used last will have to do. I barely have time to snap one or two frames before it's all over.

 _Edward Cullen, professional at work_.

What a mess. Not only did I probably miss getting the picture, I didn't even see the moment.

I'm waiting with the umbrella when Bella reaches the bottom of the stairs. She seems completely shell-shocked, but I'm not sure whether it's the gravity of this occasion, the insanity of the umbrella brigade, or the accidental proposal I'm hoping she's forgotten.

"Congratulations! You really did it, baby!"

All things considered, it seems a bit silly not to kiss her at this point. I lean in for a quick peck since the line is still moving toward their seats.

Bella grabs me by the arm and pulls us both right out of line. Not that it's my biggest concern right now, but the rain is coming down in buckets, and it's not so easy to keep the umbrella over our heads.

"So, are we getting married or not?" she asks.

 _So much for amnesia_.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" I can't tell if she's angry, confused, or amused.

"Well, you never answered me!"

"So you _did_ propose!"

"Not very well . . ." _Sigh._ "Ah, screw it! Hold this?" I hand her the umbrella again and take a knee on the sodden grass. "Bella, will you marry me? I'm sorry I don't have a ring—well, actually, I _do_ have a ring, just not on my person, because I wasn't planning on doing this right now, obviously—but I promise you'll like it if you say yes. It's a very nice ring."

She stares at me for a couple of terrifying seconds before bursting into giggles. "When did _I_ become the stable person in this relationship? You are a hot mess, Edward Cullen!"

"It's customary for the propose-ee to answer the question at this point in the process," I inform her as patiently as possible under the dire circumstances.

She steps close enough to straddle my thigh and sits her ass down on my knee. "Oh, Edward! _Of course_ I'll marry you!" She leans in to kiss me, and her mortarboard whacks me on the forehead. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Bella flings her cap away, grabs me by the knot of my tie, and kisses me till one of her friends yells out, "Get a room, you two!" loud enough for everyone standing in our vicinity to hear.

Our kiss dissolves into mortified laughter. "I'm sorry, Bella. This is definitely not the proposal I had planned."

"Oh?" She climbs off my leg and helps me up. "You had a plan?"

"Have you met me?"

"Am I going to get to hear about this plan?"

"Yes, but do you think maybe we could save it for a more romantic moment?"

She surveys the crowd, two thousand drowned rats and a voice still droning away at the microphone. "More romantic than this?"

I take the umbrella from her and wrap my free arm around her shoulders. "Do you think you can come sit with your family now?"

"What are they gonna do, take away my diploma?"

Every step I take feels like stepping on a saturated sponge. _Squish, squish, squish._ "I'd offer to put it inside my jacket to keep it dry, but I'm pretty sure there's a small lake sitting in my pocket."

"Nah, I like it like this," she says. "Gonna take it home and frame it. Captures the spirit of the day, y'know?"

"I don't think this will be a day we'll soon forget."

Bella chuckles, her laughter so close to my ear, I can feel the breeze through my wet hair. "I don't think anyone here is going to forget this day, thanks to your shenanigans."

"I took some great photos of all the umbrellas. I should send a few to the school paper."

"Speaking of news . . ." She pulls up short, tugging me back by our joined hands. "Are we telling everyone our big news right now?"

"That's up to you. I don't want to steal your thunder. That's why I wasn't going to propose till later."

"They're going to ask how you proposed."

"I have no idea what came out of my mouth," I admit.

"Whatever you said, it worked, Mr. Sweet Talker," she says with a twinkle that makes me forget the deluge for a minute, "though we might not want to tell our grandkids your proposal started with 'Screw it.'"

"Whoa! Grandkids? Can we back it up a generation please? I don't think I'm quite ready to be a grandpa."

"Hmm, are you saying you're ready to be a daddy?"

"Not right this second . . ." This is definitely not a conversation I'd anticipated having here, now, or huddled under an umbrella. "But I sure like the idea of getting started on it."

"You're thinking about sex right now?"

I shrug because _duh_. "Not _just_ sex . . . I was also wondering what you were wearing under that gown."

"I don't think you can handle the truth," she says, somewhat cruelly.

"You might know me too well."

"I certainly did not know you were going to propose just now," she says with a chuckle.

"That makes two of us!"

We start strolling again, the lone graduate to leave her flock and the crazy umbrella guy, in no particular hurry to do anything but stay close to each other.

"Maybe we should wait to tell everyone."

"Whatever you want, Bella."

"I think we should enjoy our little secret for a while longer before we share it with the world."

"Speaking of the world . . ." I tip my chin toward Mom's wheelchair, only a few rows away now. I'm sure she'll know everything as soon as she looks at me, but if there's one gal who can keep a secret, that's my mom.

"How's my hair holding up?" Bella asks, pulling the ends through her fingers. "Frizz central?"

I could lie, but she'll eventually look in a mirror, and then we'll have trust issues. I shake my head like a surgeon with sad news. "Honey, you've had better hair days."

A very unladylike snort comes out of my fiancée as she looks me up and down. "No offense, _darling_ , but nobody's taking your picture for the cover of _GQ_ right now."

I follow her gaze to my mud-covered, grass-stained slacks. "We are a pair, aren't we?"

"A pair of engaged people," she says, and we grin at each other like a couple of lovesick fools. Mom is so going to know.

Renee and Charlie spill out of the row of seats, unrecognizable from the sea of beige rain gear but for their proud, shining faces peeking out from their hoods. I catch Charlie's eye while he visibly struggles to restrain himself so Renee can have the honor of the first hug. I step back, holding the umbrella over Bella and her mother while they share a long, tight embrace.

Every hug has its rhythm; the grab, the pull, the embrace, and the release. There's a somewhat standard length of time that feels natural for each phase, depending on the relationship, the occasion, the mood . . . a host of factors. By every reasonable measure, Renee and Bella's hug extends beyond the norm—and keeps going.

Both women's faces are buried in the other's shoulder, but I hear a sniffle . . . and then another. And then I see the shaking, and I know big, ugly crying is about to happen. Tears tug at my eyes, and I have to look away.

My gaze falls on Charlie, who has drawn his upper lip between his teeth in attempt to head off the quiver, but it's of no use at all when the tears start. He passes the heel of his hand across both cheeks, but the tears fall faster than he can push them away. When he can't take it anymore, he strides under the umbrella, wraps his arms around his wife and daughter, and releases a muffled sob that shakes my soul.

It's a catharsis I'm not sure Bella realized she needed, while at the same time, one she's been heading toward in some form for the last ten years of her life—sometimes in baby steps, sometimes in giant leaps, and other times in heartbreaking backward slides.

My fingers itch to pull my camera to my eye: to see it, to record it, to hold onto what is so obviously a pivotal moment. But this moment is not mine to capture. It is for this mother and daughter and father who have been through hell and fought their way back to share in this moment of intense healing.

"Edward."

I don't think I'll ever get used to Bella's raw, broken voice when she cries. She lifts her head from the family huddle. Her eyes are red and puffy but not sad.

"Hmm?" I step to her side, and she finds my hand and wraps hers around it.

"Mom, Dad . . . Edward and I have something to tell you."

My heart drops about down to my soggy loafers. Renee and Charlie lift their heads and blink wet eyes at me. _This is not happening._

"What is it?" Charlie asks.

The umbrella lists to one side, and I remember I'm supposed to be keeping everyone dry, supposed to be breathing.

"Bella?" Renee now looks worried. "Is something wrong?"

"Nope," Bella answers, smiling at me, "everything is exactly right." She angles her forehead toward me and waits.

 _Gulp._

" _Now_?" I ask, because this is not something to screw up—again.

"YES," Charlie, Renee, and Bella all answer at once, our four heads so close I can feel their exhales on my nose.

"Okay. I, uh, asked Bella to marry me andshesaidyes!"

Charlie's head tips sideways at an unnatural angle. " _When_?"

"Just before she crossed the stage to get her diploma."

"And then right _after_ I got my diploma," Bella adds with an angelic smile that has no business anywhere near her face right now.

Renee sucks in a loud gasp, then squeals at the top of her lungs. "You're getting married? Charlie, the kids are getting married!" She grabs everyone by the shoulders and yanks us up and down like we're all strapped to a giant pogo stick.

Charlie's confusion gives way to joy, and he crushes us all into another breathless hug. "What a day! Congratulations, kids."

A firm hand lands on my back. I turn to find Raoul giving me the _c'mere_ chin-jerk.

"Excuse me," I mumble as I ease out of the family embrace. "What's up, Raoul? Is Mom okay?" I peek around the huddle of Swans to find Mom smiling at me.

"She wanted you to have this." He thumps me in the hand with the little velvet box I asked Mom to hold for later.

" _Now_?"

"You already proposed, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, what's the problem? The girl's not gonna say no."

At this point, holding out for a quiet moment to give Bella the ring seems a bit absurd. I can still stop the car at "our spot" just before the Golden Gate and propose as I'd planned. Our romantic suite at Duckhorn will still be waiting for us tonight with candles and champagne and roses. Why not give my mother this pleasure?

I reach into the tangle of arms and shoulders and coats and find Bella's hand. "I need to borrow my fiancée, please."

Bella lifts her tear-streaked face and lets me draw her into my body. "Sorry about springing that on you," she says. "It just felt right to tell them."

"It's all good. I think my mother would like to congratulate us."

"Of course." Bella nods, and I lead her to a spot in front of my mother's chair.

"Raoul, would you be so kind?" I hand him the umbrella, my camera, and Bella's diploma. "For the official record books . . ."

I take Bella's left hand, drop to the flooded lawn onto my muddy, ruined knee. Ignoring the splash and the water seeping up my leg, I open the box. "Isabella Marie Swan, would you please do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Edward Anthony Masen Cullen?"

Bella's eyes are wide as saucers. "Yes—for the third time," she says. "Oh, Edward, this ring is gorgeous!"

"Put it on her finger, Edward!" Mom coaches me from the sidelines.

As I slide the platinum band over Bella's slender finger, I hear my camera's shutter clicking away. Raoul's got game . . . and a giant grin on his face. "Carry on as if I'm not here," he says.

Bella brings the ring close to her face, then moves her hand away in that way girls do when they're studying their jewelry or nails.

"My stone looks beautiful on you, sweetheart," my mother says quietly.

"Oh!" Bella turns to Mom, her shiny new ring now pressed firmly to her heart. "This was yours? That makes it even more special." Bella reaches under Mom's poncho to hold her hands. "Thank you so much for allowing Edward to give it to me, Esme."

"I couldn't imagine a more wonderful girl to share my son's life. Edward chose the setting, by the way, said the contemporary style was more 'you.'"

Bella studies the ring again, then glances over to smile at me. "What a beautiful blend of traditional and modern."

"Aren't we though," I say.

Bella humors me with a very sweet kiss as I stand and join their hand-holding chain.

"I'm so happy for both of you," Mom says. "Wasn't this a perfect day?"

As I lean in to kiss my mother's cheek, I notice it's stopped raining—just in time for our indoor luncheon.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Many thanks to Pa and Chaya for helping me keep this one real-ish. Hope you enjoyed the messy proposal(s)!

 **XXX ~BOH**


	22. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

I've seen weddings in my day, arguably more than most as a professional photographer who once made his livelihood off other people's nuptials, but this one is unequivocally over the top—as in miles above the center post of the Ringling Brothers circus tent.

I shouldn't be here right now, sneaking around the reception area with my camera while the pros polish every element to a bright shine: the magnificent floral arrangements, prodded and fluffed to perfection; the gauzy drapes, tucked and tied _just so_ ; the sound system, run through its paces albeit at modest decibel levels. If Bella finds me here, she's likely to roll her eyes at my inability to resist a good candid, but behind her resigned exasperation, there will be warmth and understanding and an undeniable admiration of my craft. I'll risk it.

I pad around the room on quiet feet, only giving myself away with the soft whir of the shutter. Once they look up, the moment is over, and it's time to move on.

There's one professional I won't sneak up on—the lady putting the final touches on the wedding cake—a painful lesson taught to me long ago by a ruined cake and a very unhappy, startled pastry chef. It's possible Sasha might be more forgiving, considering our history, but I'd rather not test the theory. The thought of her messing up the gorgeous cake she's fussing over makes me physically ill.

I clear my throat with extra vigor as I cross the dance floor in full view with the loudest footfalls my tuxedo slippers can possibly leave. Sasha lifts her gaze and sticks her tongue out when she sees my camera.

"Charming!" I smirk and snap the picture anyway.

"Oh, please! _You_ try being charming while applying a five-tier fondant vine! I haven't had my coffee yet because I can't afford the caffeine shakes!"

"Holy shit! That's fondant? I thought those were real roses. Mind if I . . .?" I don't wait for her permission to take the picture. Sasha might be unusually tense right now, but she's one of the most even-tempered bakers I've ever known. "That is one seriously outrageous wedding cake."

Sasha huffs. "That's what happens when you bring an eighty-five-year-old baker out of retirement!"

I lower the camera and take another look at the masterpiece. "Pop-Pop made this?"

"He insisted. Baked all five layers—all different, by the way—and crafted every inch of the fondant. Took him a whole week! Mom and I agreed it would be wise if I handled the assembly; Pop-Pop's hands aren't as steady as they used to be."

I can feel my mother's tremor as if she were holding my hand right now. Amazing which snippets of memory survive seven years' time.

"Sorry," Sasha says, meeting my expression with a grimace. "I didn't mean to . . ."

"No, I know." I offer a smile, but it's tight at best. "Speaking of moms, how's Irina?"

Sasha's anguish eases, and her smile returns. "She moved in with Owen last weekend."

"You don't say! That was quick!" I can hardly keep a straight face.

Sasha giggles. "Yep, only took four and a half years of convincing, but once Mom made up her mind, she packed up her last drawer of sweaters, and out she went."

"Owen's a lucky man," I say, sharing a contented nod with Sasha. "Your mom deserves all the happiness in the world. At least now, maybe they'll have an extra half-hour a day together?"

"Oh!" Sasha stands to her full height and wipes her hands on her apron. "You haven't heard? Mom and I have decided to cut back to our original bakery hours—early morning through two o'clock. She's ready to cook dinner for two now, and you know I never wanted any part of the dinner service. My passion is baking, always has been."

"Well, you're obviously very talented. How many outlets are you up to now?"

Her face takes on a warm glow as she recounts the impressive list of caterers, specialty stores, and cafés now buying baked goods from Orlovs'.

"That's wonderful, Sasha. I couldn't be happier for all of you. Just promise me you'll make room for a social life, too?"

The bright blush on her cheeks tells me this might not be an issue. "Yes, Uncle _Edvard_."

Point taken.

"I'll have to give Irina a call and catch up real soon—if she can make time to talk to me."

"There's always time for our white knight."

Though the Orlovs bought me out five years ago—with a modest profit and a lifetime entitlement to free sweets—the nickname stuck, at least within certain circles. At home, the White Knight takes a back seat to Umbrella Man every time.

"Please send my regards to your grandfather, and tell him I am impressed. I hope I can still hold a camera at Pop-Pop's age, let alone produce anything this artistic."

Sasha gives me a sly grin. "Something tells me you will be just fine at eighty-five, Edward."

"We'll know soon enough," comes a booming voice behind me. Emmett grins as he extends his hand, then pulls me into a hug. "Mr. Cullen, always a pleasure."

"You are a laugh riot as usual, Emmett. And _hmm_ "—I jiggle my fingertip over his temple—"is that a little smattering of gray I see?"

Emmett slaps me on the back and releases me with a chuckle. "I believe the word you're searching for is 'distinguished,' but don't feel bad; I understand word recall starts to be an issue in one's fifties."

"Funny, I'm not having any problem coming up with several choice words for you right now."

"Devilishly dapper?" Emmett responds with a wink, straightening his bowtie.

"Sure, yeah, let's go with that."

He treats me to a double-dimpled grin that probably works better on the ladies. "So, are you having fun, poking around my function?"

"There's a dirty joke in there somewhere," I answer with a guffaw. "The room looks amazing though. You've outdone yourself."

"Thanks, man. I suppose I've learned a thing or two since I took over at the Zetta."

"You didn't put on weddings like this at Hooters?"

"Hahaha! Nothing wrong with a bucket of hot wings and a couple of pitchers of Budweiser!" Emmett glances at Sasha, who has returned to work on the cake and is wisely ignoring us. Still, he lowers his voice, also wisely, before adding, "In fact, Rosie still wears her uniform every so often, just for old time's sake, if you know what I mean. How about Bella?"

If Emmett thinks that suggestive eyebrow waggle is going to earn him intimate details of our sex life, he's learned nothing in the past thirteen years. "You couldn't possibly be referring to the mother of my two children."

"Oh, sorry, man," Emmett says, finally looking appropriately contrite. "The uniform doesn't fit anymore?"

 _Or not._

"How on earth does your wife put up with you?"

"Hell if I know," he answers with a certain pride in his tone. Emmett wears his surrender to Rosalie like a badge of honor, goofy grin and all.

I follow his gaze to the bar across the room, where Bella's bestie Rose is busy organizing bottles and glasses in preparation for the rush of guests. She's grace in motion behind that bar, just as Bella always was.

I pat Emmett on his clean-shaven cheek. "Despite your efforts to appear otherwise, you are a good man, Emmett McCarty, and you were always a great boss to Bella. We both appreciated that."

"Bella was a great bartender, worked her little orange tail off. And obviously, the customers loved her."

" _Steady_ —"

Emmett snorts and socks me in the shoulder hard enough to make me think about rubbing it. "As if you ever worried about the competition."

To hear Rosalie tell the story, Bella could hardly pour a beer that first night at Hooters, once I walked in. I only believe the tale because I was hers from the get-go, too. One bus ride in the rain. Twenty minutes. _Done_.

A sudden recollection reorganizes Emmett's features—his eyes pop wide open; the easygoing smile twitches into a tight circle. "Oh, shit! I almost forgot about that day you came in with the roses . . ."

Reading my expression, Emmett stops himself. With a smooth sweep of his hand meant to direct my focus toward the nearest table, he says, "Speaking of roses, have you seen the centerpieces?"

Nothing quite warrants a "Does a bear shit in the woods?" like asking a photographer if he's seen the flowers at a wedding. Still, I appreciate what Emmett's trying to do, and I let him off the hook.

"Yes, Richard did an amazing job. I told him years ago he was wasting his talents in the Shady Acres flower shop."

"I told him the same," Emmett says with a wide grin, "just before I offered him a job on staff."

"When did you—?"

"Yesterday, after I watched him transform the ballroom into . . . _this_." Emmett spreads his arms wide, taking in the awe-inspiring fantasy of color and texture.

"And?"

"He starts after the honeymoon."

"Oh boy. How did Raoul take the news?"

Emmett winks, charming as ever. "He was a little pissed that his hubby wouldn't be working in his building anymore, so I comped the grooms a couple's massage this afternoon with the Zetta's two hottest masseurs . . . I believe all is forgiven."

I shake my head at Emmett's audacity, but he didn't earn his spot as Events Manager at one of San Francisco's swankiest boutique hotels by being shy. "You're lucky Raoul is incapable of holding a grudge."

"Grudge, my ass. I doubled Richard's salary. Raoul could retire right now if he wanted to."

After we lost Mom, Raoul made the difficult decision not to take on another hospice patient full-time, but he'd found a new zeal for the Independent Living residents—the "lifers," as Raoul called them.

"I think Raoul is many years from retirement. When I visited Shelly last week, Raoul had the whole floor doing the salsa—walkers and all."

"Sounds like quite the scene," Emmett says with the same grin I wore—until Raoul dragged me up front to be his partner.

"Yeah, anyway . . . you've cordoned off two rows up front for the Shady Acres contingent, right?"

"All set. Plenty of room for Raoul's fan club and co-workers."

"Damn, Mom would have loved to have been here today to watch Raoul take his vows. He and Richard were just getting to know each other when she passed." Tears well up, and Emmett squeezes my shoulder.

"As I recall," Emmett says gently, "a certain son placed a standing order at a certain flower shop that had to be picked up by a certain caregiver."

"It was the least I could do."

"Okay, if we're done reminiscing . . .?" Emmett is kind enough to offer his suggestion as a question.

"Yes. Thank you, Emmett. You always were a good listener."

He turns on the charm like a light switch, but anyone can tell he's genuine. "Let's see that camera a sec." He holds out his hand and waits.

"What? I'm supposed to hand you my camera?"

"Yes. You're going to surprise the happy couple with some behind-the-scenes photos, right? Let's give them what they really want."

"Which is . . .?"

Emmett takes the camera from me, fiddles with the display for a second until he figures out how to flip it around, then holds the camera at arm's length and wraps his other arm around my shoulders. "A selfie of us. What else?"

He snaps the first shot before I can fix my smile.

"I think you can probably do better than that. Come on, Old School."

Emmett flashes his smile and clicks the shutter again before I recover from my surprise. "Bella told you she calls me that?"

"We all call you that—behind your back. Now smile, will ya?"

I twist my mouth into what I doubt is a smile. My eyes shift to the display just as he takes the picture. There I am, frozen in the most rookie selfie pose ever. Emmett glances at the display and starts laughing. "You really suck at this, you know that?"

"Which is why"—I pry my camera from his grip—"I am always the one taking the pictures! Say cheese, ya big pain in my ass!"

"Cheese, ya big pain in my ass!"

It's an awful picture. The composition is shit: Emmett's head is too close to the camera; my chin is dipped, and my eyes are pinched shut. My bowtie hangs open on either side of my unbuttoned collar, making me look like a waiter at the end of a long shift. And yet, it is perfection.

You can't look at the image and not hear our laughter. The grooms are going to love it. I might even include the two horrible shots Emmett took, just for giggles.

"Hey, speaking of awesome photos, take a look!" Emmett nods toward the head table, where Victoria is installing a stunning portrait of the grooms from our shoot three weeks ago.

The act of viewing any photo I've taken as an object of art is always an interesting experience for me, as close as I will ever come to childbirth, I suppose. The image springs into existence outside of my camera, my studio, and even the lives of my subjects, with the ability to grow and change and act upon its surroundings. This black-and-white image over the grooms' chairs is already an oasis of calm at the epicenter of this riotous spectacle of excess.

Emmett nudges me with his elbow. "Looks pretty great in front of that black draping, eh?"

"Yes. Victoria is a genius."

"Ahem! That was my idea!"

"You're a genius, too, Emmett."

"Well, I suppose the photographer might deserve some of the credit."

"Perhaps."

I actually credit Richard for this shot, for relaxing Raoul to the point where he didn't feel compelled to crack a joke or wear his ever-present, confident grin, for filling Raoul's world so thoroughly that my camera and I disappeared. It wasn't just the couple's decision to go with black (Raoul) and white (Richard) T-shirts or the blue background I chose for its strong masculine feel, but the quiet of this particular image that makes the piece sing in monochrome.

It's not easy to capture the essence of each couple I photograph, and honestly, I don't close out every session with the sense that I've nailed it. This time, I did. It helped that I've known Raoul for the better part of ten years, more intimately during those last six months of Mom's illness than I could have understood before her body so completely betrayed her. I've seen Raoul in the role of compassionate caregiver and sharp-witted friend, but until Richard, I'd never truly seen Raoul as a man in love.

Our shoot was all but over when it happened. We were at that point that always reminds me of the delicious endnote of a really good date—when it's time to say goodbye, but neither is quite ready to part ways. We'd worked a variety of poses—standing, sitting, lying down. I'd encouraged Raoul and Richard to play a bit and snapped some great candids while they were kissing, even better shots when they tried to stop kissing . . . Two attractive men, neither camera-shy, make for a successful shoot. I almost wasn't paying attention when Richard placed his hand on Raoul's chest. The engagement ring must have caught his eye. His easygoing smile faded, as if in that one instant, Richard was struck by the gravity of their upcoming wedding. Raoul, ever intuitive, recognized the moment for all its profundity and covered Richard's hand with his own. A whole conversation took place between their eyes; they both held their breath and swallowed heavy lumps.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up; my camera and I watched for the lightning, and we were not disappointed.

Richard reached behind Raoul's neck and drew their foreheads together. Raoul blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy with emotion, then pressed his cheek to Richard's chest as if trying to climb inside his partner's heart. Richard returned the gesture by pressing his lips to Raoul's head. The two lovers released a shared sigh that seemed to come from both at once, as if they'd literally breathed from the same lungs. If either of them heard my shutter, they didn't respond.

"I may have captured this picture," I tell Emmett, "but the two of them created it."

"It's an incredible shot. Neither one's seen it yet?"

"No, we did the shoot three weeks ago, and I promised them an album as a wedding gift. I don't think they'll expect this one to be hanging over their heads at the reception."

"They're gonna go nuts."

"There's no chance they'll wander into the room beforehand, right? What if Richard wants to check on the flowers at the last minute?"

"My people have strict instructions—no grooms allowed." Emmett acknowledges my nod with a sly wink. "This ain't my first rodeo. Hey, speaking of newbies, shouldn't our ring bearer be coming down soon?"

I glance down at my watch. _Shit_! "Yes, I need to get upstairs. Can you thank Victoria for me? Tell her I look forward to seeing her next week."

"Will do. See you in a bit, man . . . and don't forget to tie that thing!"

The elevator ride isn't long enough to finish the job, and my bowtie is still dangling off my neck as I race down the hallway to our room. Fingers crossed, Eve is still napping. Bless her; she inherited her mother's sleeping habits.

Her big brother, not so much. All boy, that one. Even though Emmett's upgraded us to a suite, Cameron's energy can scarcely be contained.

I slip the key card into the door and tiptoe into our room. My breath catches at the scene in front of the mirror, and I freeze just out of sight so I can spy without being detected. Watching my wife in action warms every part of me. I always knew Bella would make an amazing mother.

Our three-year-old son is standing on top of the dresser in a pint-sized tuxedo, as patient as I've ever seen him, while Bella—wrapped in a hotel-issue, white terrycloth robe—attempts to tie his bowtie from behind.

"Okay, Cammy, press play again, and hold up the phone real high so Mommy can watch while I try this one more time."

Cam taps the phone, and Bella peers over his shoulder, repeating the instructions in the video with that dogged determination I've come to know and love. "Cross the longer end over the shorter end, and bring it up through the neck loop. Pull it tight. Take the shorter end. . ."

It's moments like this I am grateful for my habit of carrying a camera everywhere I go. I lift the camera to my eye and locate the scene in the viewfinder. The reflection in the mirror of the mother-son moment is an especially poignant touch, all the more impactful for its spontaneity. As I press the shutter, I can already envision this photo as part of a lovely Mother's Day collage.

Bella scrambles to keep up, but the instructions speed ahead of her fingers. "Oh, shucks! Better give Mommy the phone again." Cameron turns obediently to place the phone in Bella's hand. "I'm sorry, sweetie. Mommy's not very good at menswear, but you are being such a big boy. I'm so proud of you."

With the phone silent, the whir of my shutter gives me away. Two heads turn my direction. Cameron's eyes grow wide.

"Daddy!" he shouts and makes to dive off the dresser.

Bella grabs him around the cummerbund just in time to avoid disaster. "Whoa there, jumping bean!" She sets Cam's feet on the floor, and he races toward me. "And shush! Evie's—" _Crying._ Loudly. "—not sleeping."

Also like her mother, Eve does not awaken with sunshine and glitter.

"Daddy, look at my shiny shoes! I can slide all the way to the windows! Watch!"

I gather the squirming toddler into my arms. "Okay, little man. How about we save the sliding for the dance floor?"

Bella turns her smirk in my direction. "Quite an entrance, darling."

"Sorry about that. I was trying to be stealth."

"Yet another reason you should never turn to a life of crime. Name your poison, sir—bowtie or diaper?"

"Is that a trick question?"

She shakes her head, chuckling. "Fine, I'm not getting anywhere with that bowtie, anyway. I'll get Evie changed, but I'll need you to give her a bottle so I can get dressed. Something tells me this robe ain't gonna cut it for black tie."

"Well, we think you look perfect just the way you are, don't we, Cam?" I get Cam nodding, the perfect, unwitting accomplice.

"Cute," Bella says, muttering under her breath about a little "Old School in the making" as she leaves the room.

"All right, tiger. Let's see about these bowties, shall we?" I hitch him onto my hip and zoom over to the mirror with enough airplane sound effects to bring out Cam's throaty laughter. "Hmm, tell you what. How about you help Daddy tie my tie, and then I'll help you with yours. Deal?"

"Deal!" We high five, his tiny hand slapping square in the middle of my palm.

"Okay!" I set him down, facing me on the dresser. "All right, you hold onto this end, and I'll cross that over . . . that's it . . . push that through the hole . . . now pull tight. Attaboy! We did it!"

Damn, if only I had my camera pointed at Cam's little triumphant grin right now.

"Cam's turn. Let's spin you around. Look in the mirror . . . okay, remember how you held onto that end? Yep, lift that up . . . stick it right through there . . . pull it tight. Look at you, Cammy! You look just like Daddy!"

His delicious cheeks plump up with a fat smile, and mine—though slimmer—mirror my son's joy.

"Lucky boy." Bella's voice draws me to her reflection, which has just appeared over my right shoulder. "I'd almost forgotten how handsome you look in a tux."

And if I'd had any idea this tux would earn that kind of reaction from my wife, I'd damn well find more occasions to wear one. Lest my darling Bella decide to take advantage of my . . . _ahem,_ heightening interest, I direct my response to the wife in the mirror. "Do you think you could hold that thought . . . like, six hours?"

Bella answers with a grin. "Sure, I'll just go back to thinking about the dirty diaper I just changed."

"Yep, that worked," I answer.

"If you boys are done gussying up, can you take your daughter, please?"

"Of course." Scooping Cameron off the dresser, I set him down in front of me and crouch to his eye-level. "Okay, Cam, now comes the hardest part of the whole night."

"Not dropping the rings?"

I glance up at Bella and try not to laugh—which isn't easy. "Well, that _is_ important, but remember, the rings are going to be tied to the pillow, so you're not going to drop them."

Cam nods so solemnly, I can see my dad as plain as day for a split second. _N_ o _thing like a wedding to bring out all the ghosts._

"Actually, buddy, the hardest part is not getting our fancy clothes wrinkled before the wedding starts. Do you think you can sit still for a little longer while I give Evie her bottle?"

Bella sets Eve into my arms. Our beautiful baby girl, so lovingly named after my mother and so thoroughly Swan—which still brings a smile to my face, as I know how much it would amuse my mother. It's only fair, I suppose, with how much Cam resembles my dad, right down to his pin-straight blond hair.

"Well, hello there, Evie. Don't you look pretty in your fancy dress!" I lean in and leave a trail of kisses from one pudgy cheek to the other. While I'm there, I fill my lungs with her sweet baby smell.

She blinks up at me with big, Bella-brown eyes, and I melt. Every damn time.

"Ready for your dinner? Hmm?" I settle in against the arm of the love seat and take the bottle and cloth from Bella.

"Cammy, why don't you scoot in right next to Daddy and help him feed your sister?"

He shrugs and sits down next to me. I tuck him under my arm, but he doesn't seem interested in holding the bottle.

"I got this, Bella. Go ahead." Eve takes the nipple and pulls hard. "We're good here."

"You sure?" she asks, eyeing Cameron skeptically.

I meet Bella's gaze. "Sweetheart, I watch our kids three days every week while you are busy saving the world, one family-run business at a time—remember?"

"Okay, going."

Cam and I both watch Bella disappear into the bathroom. His gaze lingers after the door closes softly behind her. I can't wait to hear what's going on inside that busy little head of his when Cam spins to face me.

"Is Mommy bringing a 'brella?"

"No, champ. Uncle Raoul's wedding is indoors."

"Like yours?"

"Well, yes, but . . ." The kid's too sharp for his own good. "You're thinking about that picture above Mommy and Daddy's bed, aren't you?"

Cam nods.

"Well, you're right. Mommy and Daddy did get married indoors, and the ceiling was decorated with colorful umbrellas over our heads even though it wasn't raining."

"Why?"

"Because umbrellas are special to us."

"But why?"

We have officially entered Cameron's favorite game: How many "whys" before Daddy's head explodes?

"Because when I first met Mommy, it was raining outside, and she was standing at the bus stop without an umbrella."

"Why?"

"That is a very good question you will have to ask your mother sometime. The important point here is that I shared my umbrella with Mommy."

"Why?"

"Because your Daddy has a bit of a savior complex," Bella chimes in with a smirk, drawing my attention to the sexy slip she's barely wearing as she pads across the carpet to the closet, "and he also happens to be a very good sharer."

"Why, thank you, dear." I hope Bella understands I'm thanking her for parading in front of me in her skimpy outfit. If not, I'll fill her in later.

Eve pushes the nipple out of her mouth. I stand up and place the burp cloth, then Eve over my shoulder. I hope I'll never forget the sweet curl of her fingers around my arm as I pat her back. I catch Cam looking up at me with those big, blue Carlisle eyes.

"If you're about to ask why Daddy is a good sharer, the answer is because my parents taught me excellent manners, just like we are teaching you and your sister."

This definitely isn't the right moment for Evie's loud belch, but gas waits for no man, even a dad with a point to get across.

"On that note," Bella says with a giggle.

"Wow, Bella! That dress is . . . really red."

My brain can't quite untwist the wiring tonight: dirty diapers, sexy slip; formula burps, slinky gown; baby mama, hot babe.

"Raoul said bright; I wore bright!"

"You're lucky there's no bride to outshine tonight, or you'd be in a load of trouble, Mrs. Cullen."

Bella gives me one of her epic eye rolls. At this point, I'd be disappointed if she didn't. "Okay! Who's ready for a wedding?" she asks with a loud clap.

"I am! I am!" Cam bolts off the couch and runs for the door.

"Um . . . aren't you forgetting something?" I toss his tiny tuxedo jacket to Bella and she works Cam's arms inside the sleeves. "Looking spiffy, little man. Grammy and Gramps are going to be so impressed."

"Are they here?" Bless him, the kid is genuinely excited to see Bella's folks. To their credit, Charlie and Renee happen to be wonderful grandparents.

"Yep. They're saving seats for us, so we should get going!"

"But Daddy, what about your jacket?"

"Good point, Camster!"

Bella reaches for the baby. "Want me to take her so you can put your jacket on?"

"Nah, I think Evie's drool might clash with your dress."

With a bit of stay-at-home-dad, logistical ingenuity and my own personal pizzazz, I shrug my left arm into the jacket sleeve, transfer the baby to my left shoulder, push my right arm through, and straighten the lapels as best I can. Bella watches my maneuvering with great amusement.

"Piece of cake." I brag a little, offering my right elbow to my wife.

She surrenders, as usual, with a soft chuckle. "You are something else."

"See this, Cam?" I waggle my elbow while he takes it all in. "This is how a gentleman helps a beautiful lady who's wearing high heels so she doesn't trip and fall on her face." Bella gives me an adorable huff, which I answer with an insanely sexy wink. "There's only one problem. I ran out of hands! How am I going to carry my camera downstairs?"

Cam's eyes light up. "Can I, Daddy?"

"Hmm, I don't know. Can I trust you to be super careful?"

"Yes!" He's already snagged the camera from where I abandoned it near the door, and he's holding it in his palms exactly as we taught him to carry the ring pillow.

"Put the strap over your head like I showed you last time . . . that's a boy."

 _Sigh._ If I had a free hand, I'd grab this shot with my phone, quality be damned. Every so often, even a seasoned photographer has to admit he just can't capture every moment on film. I settle for a mental picture this time.

Bella opens the door, and we file out into the hallway. Cam takes off at a dead run for the elevator buttons—hence, the neck strap.

"Oh, my lord," Bella says, shaking her head. "Look out, world. Here comes Old School, Junior. Next thing you know, he'll be whipping out the umbrella for some poor, unsuspecting girl at a bus stop."

"Ha! I should certainly hope so!"

"Well, heaven help him, then."

"Eh, just because he saves a girl from getting soaked doesn't mean she'll steal his heart forever."

I have piqued Bella's interest, as her perfectly arched eyebrow tells me. "No?"

With a nonchalant shrug, I yammer random nonsense as we follow our little bundle of tuxedoed energy down the long hallway. "Who knows? He might fall for a girl with enough sense to carry her own umbrella. Or a boy, for that matter!"

"Can you imagine it, Edward? Two umbrella people in one couple?"

"Um . . . yes, I believe I can. Don't tell me you've forgotten about the rather large umbrella hanging over your office door, Mrs. Cullen?"

An office-warming gift from yours truly. The umbrella suits her business so much more than a run-of-the-mill sign, even if she settled on Cullen Workout Solutions instead of my personal favorite, Bella's Umbrella. From the moment I nailed it over the door, the bright red umbrella became an icon for the whole neighborhood. The "lady who saved Orlovs'" shows up five years later with her own shop three doors down.

"How could I forget, Mr. Cullen? Remember that storm we had last Tuesday? I counted fourteen people huddled under that umbrella."

"Good thing I went with the extra-large," I answer.

"Well, after the Graduation Fiasco of 2019 . . ."

Grinning, we catch up to Cameron, who is busy running back and forth between all four elevator cars, guessing which will arrive first. Bella summons him and places a hand on his shoulder; he stills for the moment. A bell dings, and the elevator in front of us opens its doors to an empty car with mirrored walls.

 _Click._

Our makeshift family portrait hits me in the gut in the best possible way. It's more than I can trust to my mind's eye and a dubious memory. Bella starts forward, but I hold my elbow firm, and she snaps back with a surprised, "Edward!"

"Sorry. One sec?"

Bella shrugs, shooting me one of her "I guess today is the beginning of my husband's inevitable slide toward senility" expressions while I press my foot against the open elevator door.

"Cam, do you remember how to take a picture with Daddy's camera?"

"Mmhmm," he answers. He studies the camera for a couple of seconds before bringing the lens to his nose.

Bella and I share a smile in the mirror as she reaches over our son's shoulder to turn the camera right-side-out. "There ya go. Can you see us in the mirror now?" she asks.

The camera covers half his face. Under its bulk, Cam's tongue sweeps across his lower lip in perfect concentration. "Mmhmm."

"Good boy. Remember where the magic button is?" I ask, turning Eve around so she's facing forward.

He feels around for the shutter before Bella nudges his fingertip into place. Recognition lights the lower half of his face, and he presses the shutter without warning.

"Great job, buddy. Now this time, do it like Daddy. Count to three first, and _then_ press the button. Ready?"

"Yes," he says, spilling into, "One, two, three, cheese!" without a pause. The elevator buzzes just as Cam presses the shutter, and he giggles with delight. "Again!"

Bella gently lowers the camera from his face. "I think that's enough for now."

"Yes, we don't want to be late for Uncle Raoul's wedding." I step inside the elevator, bringing my little family with me. " _Somebody's_ got to walk those rings down the aisle."

Cam beams with pride. I'm pretty sure my heart will explode at some point today—hopefully, not before I see those two pictures my son the budding photographer just took. The second one might be Bella's tenth anniversary present if I can get it developed before next week. As for the first, I'm fairly certain my son just accidentally took the perfect photo to advertise my new show: _Family Ties_.

The elevator doors close, and the floors tick down to the ballroom level. I am in no rush. I'm right where I want to be.

I glance down at my son's blond head. _Good luck if you're destined to turn into me, little man. And don't you ever, ever think about putting that hair up in a bun!_ While I'm at it, I give Evie a tighter squeeze. If she continues to take after her mother, I'm going to need a way bigger umbrella . . . and I can't bring myself to imagine the dating years.

Lost in her own thoughts, Bella leans into my arm and sighs. "You make me ridiculously happy."

 _Likewise,_ I am quite sure she knows, as I make it a point to tell her frequently—by phone, by text, with flowers, and with every part of my body whenever I have the chance _._

"All in a day's work, Lois."

For now, anyway, I guess our little umbrella is exactly big enough.

* * *

 **Author's Note** : Hope you enjoyed this little peek inside the window of the Cullen suite ten years down the road... which, sigh, concludes our story for real this time.

I want to thank the lovely **Sri** and **Chrissie** who ran the _P.S. I Love You_ contest and inspired that first unspoken ILY captured by Edward's lens, and **Ladyeire** and **Shell** for their usual plotting and story-crafting collaboration on the original story. To all of you greedy readers who demanded more of their story, thank you for your reviews, your angsty cries of agony, your predictions, questions, *ahem* suggestions for Riley's comeuppance, and your beautiful umbrella posts on my timeline. You all keep my ideas churning and my fingers moving over the keys!

Special superhero shoutout to **Patrizia Adamo** , whose expertise with a camera was the original reason I sought out her advice on the sequel... but that turned out to be only one element of Pa's invaluable help and support. I wish I could share more of the creative, collaborative process so you'd appreciate the huge impact (as small as a teardrop, as large as a new bakery building) a great prereader can have on a story, but...I don't think Old School would approve of my spilling secrets! And don't even get me started on her fierce support of my characters, my story, and my delicate writer's soul. Suffice it to say, Pa rocks in every way!

As ever, my sweet, sweet **Chayasar** a left her mark on every page with her loving attention to detail. Some people say that's where the devil lives, but for me and CS, it's where the nuance lives, and dang if it's not one hell of a good time debating those details with an open-minded, compassionate soul.

And let's see if Mr. H is skimming or if he sees my humongous MWAH for spreading his big umbrella over my head and keeping me anchored through the worst of storms. As Lois said, "You've got me... who's got you?!"

And that's all she wrote...for now.  
 **XXX ~BOH**


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